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^er0onalit5 


By 

Bliss    Carman 

AutAor  of  "  Pi^es  of  Pan;'  «  Sappho,''  ««  The 

Kinship  of  Nature,"   "  The  Friendship  of 

Art;'  '' The  Poetry  of  Life,"  etc. 


L.   C.    PAGE    esf    COMPANY 

BOSTON  ,  f\  _  MCMVIII 


Copyright,  igo6,  igoy 
By  The  Ess  Ess  Publishing  Company 

(incorporated) 

Copyright,  igo6,  jgoy 
By  Gustav  Stickley 

Copyright,  igoy 
By  The  Butterick  Publishing  Co.,  Ltd. 

Copyright,  igo8 
By  L.  C.  Page  &  Company 

(incorporated) 


All  rights  reserved 


First  impression,  March,  1908 
Second  Impression,  November,  1908 


COLONIAL    PRESS 

EUctrotyfed afid  Printed  by  C  If.  Stmotuis  &*  Co. 

B^stfin,  U.S.  A. 


Cfje  iHeasure  of  Jftan 


He  who  espouses  perfection 
Must  follow  the  threefold  plan 
Of  soul  and  mind  and  body^ 
To  compass  the  stature  of  man. 

For  deep  in  the  primal  substance 
With  power  and  purpose  and  poise^ 
An  order  under  the  chaos^ 
A  music  beneath  the  noise^  — 

The  urge  of  a  secret  patience 
Throbbed  into  rhythm  and  form^ 
Till  instinct  attained  to  vision 
And  the  sentient  clay  grew  warm. 

For  sense  was  a  smouldering  fire^ 
And  spirit  a  breath  of  air 
Blowing  out  of  the  darkness^ 
Fostering  reason^ s  flare. 

By  loving^  learnings  and  doings 
Being  must  pass  and  climb 
To  goodness^  to  truth^  to  beauty^ 
Through  energy^  space ^  and  time ; 


175605 


Eftt  Mtu^nvt  of  JWan 

Out  of  the  infinite  essence^ 
For  the  eternal  employ^ 
Fashioning^  freeing^  and  kindling 
Symmetry^  wisdom^  and  joy. 

Wherefore  the  triune  dominion^  — 
Religion^  science^  and  art^  — 
We  may  not  disrupt  nor  divide^ 
Setting  its  kingdoms  aparty 

But  ever  with  glowing  ardour 
After  the  ancient  plan^ 
Build  the  lore  and  the  rapture 
Into  the  life  of  man. 


VI 


^tdatt 


ffuERE  was  never  a  time,  perhaps,  bigger 
with  s^i*i*Hal  promise  than  the  present,  nor 
more  strenuously  eager  to  liberate  the  human 
spirit  for  its  next  step  forward  in  the  arduous 
and  inspiring  journey  toward  perfection  and 
happiness.  The  cause  enlists  the  best  work 
of  the  best  workers  against  just  such  odds  as 
have  always  confronted  radical  effort,  but 
with  less  stubborn  resistance  than  in  duller 
daysj 

Among  the  active  forces  of  advance  are  the 
thought  and  work  of  Mary  Perry  King,  my 
coworker  in  this  study  of  The  Making  of 
Personality.  Her  formulation  of  an  art  of 
normalizing  personal  expression  is  original 
and    scientific,    and    of    proven    educational 

vii 


value.  From  her  luminous  talks  on  the  sub- 
jects of  these  essays,  and  on  the  humanities 
in  general,  has  been  taken  the  substance  of 
this  book  and  of  others  that  have  appeared 
within  the  last  decade.  Refusing  joint  sig- 
nature on  the  title-page,  Mrs.  King's  pref- 
erence restricts  my  expression  of  obligation 
to  a  most  inadequate  prefatory  acknowledg- 
ment. I  welcome  even  this  tardy  and  too 
limited  opportunity  for  signifying  my  appre- 
ciation of  her  happy  genius  and  my  indebted- 
ness for  her  wise  and  generous  cooperation. 

The  first  chapter  indicates,  as  clearly  as  I 
can  make  it,  the  scope  and  purpose  of  the  vol- 
ume and  its  underlying  ideal  of  education  and 
personal  culture.  While  the  book  does  not 
attempt  to  make  any  systematic  presentation 
of  a  philosophy  (a  task  to  which  I  am  un- 
equal), it  will  be  found  to  indicate  every- 
where a  triune  ideal  of  normal  well-being 
and  happiness,  and  to  be  based  upon  a  definite 
conception  of  symmetrical  life  and  growth,  — 
a  conception  which  attributes  to  aspiration, 

viii 


effort,  and  education  equal  and  coherent  val- 
ues. 

The  paths  of  mental  and  spiritual  training 
are  well  marked,  and  physical  education  itself 
is  growing  rapidly  in  popularity  and  effi- 
ciency, but  the  work  of  relating  the  three  in 
any  coordinate  personal  culture  has  as  yet 
hardly  been  recognized  as  a  desirability. 
Such  work  at  its  best  cannot  be  merely  a  pro- 
fession, it  is  essentially  a  most  subtle  and  com- 
prehensive art,  —  the  art  of  appreciating,  in- 
terpreting, and  educating  personality. 

This  triunistic  or  unitrinian  philosophy,  as 
I  find  myself  calling  it  to  avoid  a  confusing 
use  of  the  word  trinitarian,  lends  itself  most 
simply  and  practically  as  a  standard  of  dis- 
crimination and  a  guide  in  self-culture. 

B.  C. 

Boston,  February^  igo8. 


IX 


Contents 


V9 

FAGB 

I. 

The  Meaning  of  Personality    .           ,           ,         i 

II. 

The  Underglow  . 

•       43 

III. 

The  Lucky  Pilot 

,       58 

IV. 

The  Winged  Victory      . 

•       73 

V. 

The  Silver  String            . 

.     104 

VI. 

Rhythms  of  Grace 

127 

VII. 

Beauty  of  the  Foot 

156 

VIII. 

The  Art  of  Walking      . 

185 

IX. 

Dancing  as  a  Fine  Art  . 

204 

X. 

The  Music  of  Life 

221 

XI. 

The  Sorcery  of  the  Hand 

250 

XII. 

The  Leaven  of  Art 

257 

XIII. 

Designer  and  Builder     . 

278 

XIV. 

The  Might  of  Manners  . 

289 

XV. 

The  Use  of  Out-of-Doors 

310 

XVI. 

The  Dominion  of  Joy    .           , 

324 

XVII. 
SCVIII. 

The  Growers 

An  Old-Fashioned  Essence 

342 
353 

XIX. 

Genius  and  the  Artist    . 

37^ 

iWafetng  of  ©ersonalitij 


%fft  iWeaning  of  personality 

/There  is  still  nothing  more  interesting^ 
than  personaJitvA  Selves  are  all  that  finally 
count.  ^To  discerning  modern  eyes  all  of  life 
is  a  mere  setting  for  the  infinitely  intense  and 
enthralling  drama  of  personalities.  We  slave 
and  endure  and  dare  and  give  ourselves  to  the 
engrossing  demands  of  business  and  affairs, 
deluding  ourselves  for  the  hour  with  the  no- 
tion that  mere  activity  ensures  success,  and 
that  deliberate  achievement,  if  only  it  be 
strenuous  enough,  will  bring  happiness.  But 
in  moments  of  calm  sanity  we  perceive  our 

I 


8CJ)e  JHaftino  of  ^ttuonaUts 


d 


folly,  and  know  full  well  that  personality  and 
^not  performance  is  the  great  thing./ 

Current  thought  attests  this.  Popular  as- 
piration passionately  affirms  it.  Whatever 
any  one's  philosophy  of  living  may  be, 
whether  transcendental  or  materialistic,  the 
first  and  chief  concern  in  its  pursuance  is  how 
to  make  the  most  of  it  in  making  the  most 
Vand  best  of  oneself,  f^  All  our  social  disquiet, 
our  constant  turmoil  in  political  and  indus- 
trial life,  means  only  an  attempt  to  give 
larger  freedom'  and  greater  scope  for  the  per- 
fection of  human  personality.  We  would 
give  it  room  to  grow,  opportunity  to  thrive, 
the  chance  to  realize  its  ideal§/)  Under  the 
stress  of  a  divine  evolutionary  impulse,  we 
wish  to  disentangle  personality  from  the 
crushing  monotony  of  mere  circumstantial 
mechanical  existence.  Man  is  not  willing  to 
remain  an  automaton,  but  must  somehow 
achieve  and  vindicate  an  individual  selfhood. 
We  feel  sure  that  it  is  to  this  end  that  we  were 
created^  and  to  this  end  surely  all  progress 


STfie  iWeaning  of  ^tvnonuUts 

is  seen  to  be  tending.   ,The  seed  of  the  gods, 
sown  in  the  dust  of  the  ground,  exerts  its  in- 
finitesimal but  mighty  force  to  break  from  its 
enveloping  darkness  and  put  forth  at  last  the 
perfect  long-awaited  flower  of  mankincl^ 
y^gNot  only  is  this  the  urge  underlying  ourj 
instinctive,  tentative,  and  often  irrational  ef- 1 
forts  for  the  reform  and  betterment  of  insti- 1 
tutions,  but  underlying  the  demand  for  better! 
individual    education    among    thinking    and/ 
cultivated  people  as  well,  (pur  modern  plays 
and   novels   all   centre   about   the  values   of 
personality,  the  influence  of  personality,  the 
freedom  of  personality,  the  development,  tri- 
umph, or  defeat,  of  personality.     When  be- 
fore our  own  day  were  such  cold  psycholog- 
ical problems  as  Ibsen's  offered  and  accepted 
as  entertainment?     Even  such  expositions  as 
Marie   Bashkirtseflf's   and   Mary  MacLane's 
are   accepted   as   frank   statements   of   truth, 
"  human  documents "  that  may  help  to  gain 
freedom  for  other  personalities. 
Of  old,  men  were  more  engulfed  in  nature, 
3 


more  deeply  embedded  in  subconsciousness 
and  dreams,  more  completely  under  the  dom- 
ination of  superstitions,  fears,  and  marvels, 
and  felt  themselves  more  helplessly  in  the 
hands  of  an  inscrutable  destiny  which  they 
could  neither  conquer  nor  placate.  The 
mere  fact  of  general  existence  was  a  lifelong 
and  perplexing  wonder.  There  was  neither 
time  nor  light  for  the  recognition  and  realiza- 
tion of  self.  Then,  too,  there  were  more  ex- 
ternal dangers,  wars,  famines,  pestilences, 
which  made  men  cling  together,  repressing 
individualky.J  With  greater  peace  and  as- 
/surance  of  subsistence,  tr-ibiii  Ues  and  obliga- 
tions were  loosened,  and  the  individual  awoke 
and  put  forth  hungry  self-conscious  claims 
for  growth.  It  was  not  enough  to  be  a  frac- 
tion, one  must  be  an  integer.  And  to-day  that 
thought,  that  aim,  is  the  one  supreme  motive 
force  underlying  our  civilization,  —  the 
emancipation  and  cultivation  of  personal- 
ity. 

\ln  personal  culture,  that  great  task  which 
4 


confronts  us  all,  and  to  which  many  of  us 
apply  ourselves  with  so  much  impetuous  fer- 
vour and  persistence,  there  is  one  supreme 
truth  to  be  constantly  remembered,  the  three- 
fold nature  of  personality,  and  consequently 
its  threefold  perfectability  in  the  different 
but  inseparable  realms  of  spirit,  mind,  and 
bod;^ 

In  cultivating  personality,  it  is  impossible^ 
to  disregard  the  person.     For  the  person  of  \ 
every  man  and  woman  is  not  merely  the  shell  | 
aftd^-tertefw^^t  wherein  the  spirit  dwells,  but/ 
the  very  substance  and  fibre  of  personality/ 
[Walt   Whitman    said    of    his    book,    ''  Who 
touches  this,  touches  a  man."     As  truly  we 
may  say  of  any  human  body,  ''  Who  touches 
this,  touches  a  soul."    When  my  friend  lays 
his  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  it  is  my  very 
most   intimate    self    that   must    respond,    not 
merely  this  flesh  and  blood  whose  form  and 
features  are  recognizable  in  my  name^    Thj 
culture  of   personality,   thefel^ux,   is   a  vei 
complex  and  subtle  process.     It  is  not  accoi 

5 


.plished  by  the  acquiring  of  knowledge  and 

I  the  adoption  of  morality  alone,  but  by  every 
moment's  life  of  the  body,  —  every  deed, 
every  word,  every  gesture,  —  by  the  delib- 
erate training  of  exercise  and  regimen,  by  the 
long  course  of  habitual  occupation,  and  by 

\  every  brief  act  of  each  i«:eyocaWe   instant. 

^We  not  only  transform  our  outward  bodily 
persons  by  what  we  are,  making  them  simu- 
lacra of  our  inmost  selves,  but  in  sober  truth 
our  most  essential  selves  are  in  their  turn  re- 
flexly  transformed  by  the  reacting  influence 
of  our  physical  habits  and  doings.  If  a 
crabbed  and  malign  soul  makes  its  inevitable 
appearance  in  the  face,  just  so  truly  does  the 
habitual  cultivation  of  a  gracious  and  con- 
siderate demeanour  tend  inevitably  to  erad- 
icate those  unhappy  conditions  of  spirit.  To 
forget  this  power  of  the  body  upon  the  mind 
and  spirit,  is  to  leave  one-half  of  the  re- 
sources of  education  untried  and  miss  half  of 
the  opportunity  of  this  too  brief  life.  A 
cheap   and   shallow   religious  optimism   may 

6 


©tie  J«ean(nB  of  ^tvuonmt^ 

bemuse  itself  with  idle  ecstasies,  but  it  has  yet 
to  demonstrate  its  ability  to  support  life  with- 
out food  and  impart  perennial  vigour  to  the 
mind.  Dreams  and  aspirations  are  the  nat- 
ural output  of  the  human  soul,  but  nutrition 
and  hygiene  are  its  proper  and  inevitable 
sources  of  vitality.  Only  by  the  careful  use 
of  these  modest  means,  and  not  otherwise,  can 
we  detach  ourselves  from  our  mother  ground 
and  go  about  our  rational  activities  in  this 
perplexing  world. 

The  long  playing  of  a  role  like  Hamlet,  if 
it  be  well  enacted,  works  so  insidiously  upon 
the  spirit  of  the  actor  as  to  become  a  formid- 
able danger.  No  conscientious  actor  could 
repeat  the  performance  of  such  a  role  as  Dr. 
Jekyl  and  Mr.  Hyde  through  an  extended 
run,  without  incurring  grave  responsibilities 
to  himself;  while  the  portrayal  of  the  charac- 
teristic habits  of  Rosalind,  on  the  other  hand, 
acts  as  an  irresistible  nervous  tonic;  so  in- 
eradicably  is  the  spirit  joined  to  the  kindly 
clay  in  which  it  was  begotten.     So,  too,  the 

7 


persistent  punchings  and  pommellings  of 
some  forms  of  exercise  strengthen  not  only 
the  habits  of  physical  violence,  but  deeper 
lying  habits  of  aggression  and  pugnacity  as 
well.  And  it  is  clearly  recognized  that  these 
manly  arts  must  require  and  inculcate  a  code 
of  manly  honour  and  fair  play,  in  order  to 
maintain  our  respect.  When  they  fail  to  do 
this,  they  become  brutal  and  brutalizing  at 
once,  and  lose  favour  even  with  the  most  un- 
cultivated of  their  devotees.  The  pugilist's 
necessary  self-control  extends  to  the  soul  be- 
hind the  fist,  and  habitual  grace  of  conduct 
appreciably  forestalls  and  discourages  gross 
desires.  The  enforced  gymnastic  of  some 
gracious  expression,  if  imposed  on  naughty 
children,  is  a  more  fruitful  corrective  than 
most  forms  of  punishment.  If  gymnastics  in 
good  motion  were  given  to  criminals,  it 
would  prove  more  reformative  than  most 
moral  suasion,  for  it  would  be  more  deep  and 
instinctive;  it  would  be  as  if  we  should  pro- 
vide them  with  the  mechanism  of  escape  from 

8 


JEiie  MtunitiQ  of  ^tv^onnlits 

the  evil  aptitudes  in  which  they  are  impris- 
oned. 

Both  fundamentally  and  throughout  in-* 
finite  intricacies  of  subdivisions,  the  m33Sg^^^^^ 
of  personality  has  im  threefild  requirement 
and  procedure^  aftdniiijivtft  .ii&pf^nd  mi  dirfiniir^ 
training  in  morality,  intelligence,  and  phy- 
sique, /a  realization  of  this  triune  composi- 
tion of  our  being  and  its  consequent  threefold 
need  of  nurture  and  symmetrical  grov^th,  is 
the  most  auspicious  beginning  of  culture.  It 
weeds  out  all  false  pride  in  partial  excellence 
and  special  accomplishment;  it  does  away 
with  mistaken  prejudices  as  to  overdevelop- 
ment and  underdevelopment  in  any  direction 
at  the  cost  of  general  symmetry;  and  substi- 
tutes a  standard  of  normal  growth  with  equi- 
librium of  powers,  for  one  of  excessive  andL 
exceptional  cultivation  and  specialization 
When  once  accepted  as  a  criterion  of  per- 
sonal culture,  it  affords  the  most  helpful  basis 
for  self-examination,  and  for  the  selection  of 
whatever    kind    of    reinforcement   one    may 

9 


sri^e  M^^itiQ  of  ^tvuonaUts 

most  need  at  any  given  moment;  it  indicates 
the  most  serviceable  adjustment  of  conditions, 
and  the  most  valuable  utilization  of  circum- 
stances. It  is  a  magic  formula  w^hich  turns 
everything  into  grist  for  the  mills  of  life,  is 
.a  remedy  for  hardship  and  a  cure  for  de- 
spair. 

Inasmuch  as  wt  must  both  get  and  give  our 
mpressions  of  personality  through  its  phys- 
cal  expressionSj-dftd  a€Uhis  fact  is  very  gen- 
erally underestimated!  it  may  not  be  amiss  to 
emphasize  it.  The  physical  side  of  person- 
ality offers  a  medium  of  transmission  for  rea- 
on  and  impulse,*  a«d  at  the  sanfie- ttf«^  i&  the 
only  soil  and  substance  through  which  the 
spiritual  and  intellectual  live  and  are  rein- 
f0^ced^  This  surely  seems  sufficient  reason 
for  making  an  appropriate  and  adequate 
physical  education  one  of  the  bases  for  the 
culture  of  personality^ — a--^.c«kttfe  \vfeich 
may  be  begun  in  childhood -lo»g  before  self- 
consciousness  dawfts^-^r-eonscTcnce.  makes-  it- 
self known. 

lO 


The    making    of    personality   begins    with/ 
learning  to  breathe  and  move. 

*'  How  Nature  first  made  throb 
Her  atoms  in  the  void," 

iwe  do  not  know,  nor  how  the  reasoning  soul 
takes  on  the  restlessness  of  matter.  These  are 
among  the  mysteries,  but  we  know  very  well 
that  even  before  birth  the  human  personality 
begins  to  be  moulded  by  parental  will;  and 
thgj}  in  childhood  th^  iofm^^nci  fraturgti,  nnd 
habits  of  motion,  are  modified  and  moulded 
as  the  mind  and  emotional  nature  assert  them- 
selves in  the  plastic  little  bodies.  Then,  of 
course,  is  the  time  to  safeguard  and  foster 
natural  apd  right  methods  of  breathing  and 
motion.  Unfortunately  we  have  small  habit 
of  doing  mat,  and  modern  life  imposes  wrong 
and  unnatural  habits  on  the  child  almost  im- 
perceptibly^^ a«4-<iftys  of  labour  under  ^mfa- 
vourable  conditions  and  at  highly  specialized 
industries  come  to  further  arrest  and  distort 
the  growth  of  the  young  and  impressionable 

II 


physique.  All  the  main  activities  of  modern 
life,  most  of  its  industries  and  nearly  all  busi- 
ness and  professional  vocations,  are  carried 
on  under  conditions  so  far  removed  from  the 
primitive  circumstances  of  natural  living, 
that  it  is  hardly  an  exaggeration  to  question 
whether  one  person  in  a  hundred  breathes 
and  moves  well.  So  that  it  is  not  at  all  pre- 
posterous, as  it  might  sound  at  first,  to  say  that 
we  need  to  be  taught  these  rudiments  of  ani- 
mal existenceJ  The  increasing  attention  we 
&re  giving  to  physical  culture  and  voice  train- 
ing, far  from  being  superfluous,  are  of  the 
profoundest  good,  and  must  in  time  come  to 
form  part  of  all  elementary  education  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

/Tn  this,  as  in  other  fields  of  criticism,  it  is 
only  the  most  perfect  and  beautiful  standards 
that  we  ought  to  have  always  in  mind.  How- 
ever strong  and  healthy  we  may  be,  there  are 
still  more  noble  unfulfilled  ambitions  for  the 
physical  perfection  of  human  beauty  and  be- 
ing than  have  ever  yet  been  realized.     It  can- 

12 


Kfft  J«eanfn0  of  ^tvuonuUts 

not  be  enough  that  we  should  have  a  goodly 
number  of  beautiful  faces  among  our  women 
and  strong  bodies  among  our  men,  it  must 
become  our  national  pride  to  people  the  land 
with  a  more  perfect  race  than  the  world  has 
yet  seen.  Of  what  use  otherwise  are  our 
boasted  growth  and  civilization?  After  all, 
wealth  is  made  for  man,  not  man  for  wealth. 
And  we  are  undone  surely,  if  our  great  ad- 
vantages and  wonderful  achievements  cannot 
be  assimilated,  and  do  not  tend  to  make  us 
generally  and  individually  more  healthy, 
more  sane,  more  happy.  One  may  be  an  un- 
compromising admirer  of  the  age  and  yet 
perceive  heights  of  perfection  before  it  still 
unattained.  Shall  we  allow  it  to  be  truly  said 
that  another  nation  is  more  unselfishly  de- 
voted to  truth  and  science  than  we,  or  any 
other  people  more  careful  of  justice  than  our- 
selves, or  that  we  can  be  surpassed  in  our  in- 
stinct for  beauty  and  art?  Men  and  women 
who  are  alive  to-day  in  this  still  New  World 
of  unexampled  opportunity  and  resource,  can 

13 


8Cf|e  M^Uina  of  Jl^tvuonulits 

scarcely  content  themselves  with  any  less  am- 
bitious task  than  the  accomplishment  of  unri- 
valled perfection  in  each  and  all  of  these 
three  directions.  To  do  that,  there  can  only 
be  one  method  employed,  —  the  blending  and 
harmonizing  of  these  three  aims  into  an  ideal 
standard  of  symmetrical  human  develop- 
ment. 

That  a  people  like  the  ancient  Greeks 
should  have  been  at  the  same  time  devoted  to 
the  fine  arts  and  enamoured  of  physical 
beauty,  was  but  natural.  The  possession  of 
taste,  the  spiritual  quality  of  appreciation 
which  made  them  so  finely  discriminating  in 
matters  of  art  and  literature,  made  them  also 
sensitive  and  fastidious  in  the  matter  of  hu- 
man beauty.  Their  eager  and  plastic  intelli- 
gence, and  their  devotion  to  all  sensible  love- 
liness, were  manifest  in  their  nobility  of  per- 
son, and  made  them  give  their  attention  most 
assiduously  to  the  culture  of  the  body.  The 
Japanese  in  our  own  day  are  a  marked  in- 
stance of  the  same  tendency,  —  a  people  in 

14 


whom  the  most  highly  developed  art  instinct 
exists  side  by  side  with  the  utmost  attention 
to  physical  training  and  development.  The 
two  traits  are  but  different  manifestations  of 
one  quality,  —  a  passion  for  perfection  in  all 
the  forms  and  colours  which  nature  may  as- 
sume or  art  create. 

Among  Latin  peoples  there  is  a  like  feeling 
for  art  and  sensitiveness  to  the  alluring  influ- 
ence of  beauty,  which  often  seem  almost 
wholly  lacking  in  our  more  practical  and 
stolid  race.  Perhaps  it  is  only  dormant, 
buried  under  the  crushing  pall  of  mediaeval 
religionism  laid  upon  it  by  our  excellent  but 
misguided  ancestors,  or  submerged  beneath 
the  insufferable  weight  of  business  and  indus- 
trial servitude  which  we  have  evolved  for 
ourselves.  Alert  intelligence,  prompt  and 
capable  executive  qualities,  inventiveness, 
courage,  industry,  ambition,  honesty  in  deal- 
ing, good  nature  in  conduct,  these  are  all 
traits  that  make  for  a  cleaner,  more  whole- 
some life;    but  without  equivalent  discrimi- 

iS 


nating  taste,  —  a  regard  for  what  may  be  be- 
coming, pleasing,  and  beautiful,  as  well  as 
effective,  —  their  command  of  happiness  is 
most  insecure,  and  all  our  strenuous  endeav- 
ours must  lead  but  to  doubtful  ends  and  dis- 
appointing achievements. 

Our  architecture,  our  homes,  our  dress,  our 
furniture,  our  household  effects,  as  well  as 
our  books,  our  music,  our  drama,  our  statues, 
and  our  paintings,  —  all  these  necessary  and 
pleasant  things  with  which  we  surround  our- 
selves must  be  not  only  abundant  but  beauti- 
ful in  order  to  serve  all  our  requirements  of 
them.  If  they  surround  us  in  lavish  profu- 
sion, but  without  taste,  they  are  but  barbarous 
treasures,  exerting  a  debasing  rather  than  a 
civilizing  influence  over  us.  Everywhere  we 
are  beginning  to  feel  this  more  and  more  gen- 
erally, and  to  discredit  the  cheap  and  ugly 
products  of  machine  labour,  and  to  perceive 
that  art  is  an  inherent  quality  in  all  industry 
which  is  honest. 

Along  with  this  growing  appreciation  of 
i6 


w 


Efft  Jtttanfnfl  of  J^etsoiTiiltts 

art,  this  sensitiveness  to  beauty  in  all  our  sur- 
roundings, must  come  an  ever  growing  care 
for  our  physical  perfection.  As  we  become 
more  and  more  critical  of  what  is  ugly  in 
things  about  us,  we  shall  be  more  easily  of- 
fended by  any  blemish  of  personal  appear- 
ance, any  defect  in  bodily  vigour,  any  inade- 
quacy or  awkwardness  or  insincerity  in  per- 
sonal expression.  It  will  not  seem  sufficient 
to  us  that  a  man  should  be  possessed  of  inflex- 
ible integrity  and  nobility  of  spirit;  we  shall 
demand  that  his  nobility  and  integrity  per-  '\ 
meate  his  entire  being,  and  that  he  bear  him-  ^  j 
self  accordingly  and  present  a  noble  seeming 
to  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Moral  perfection 
will  not  seem  enough,  while  physical  perfec- 
tion is  lacking.  We  shall  not  then  ask  every 
man  merely  to  be  a  reputable  citizen,  we 
shall  expect  him  to  be  an  admirable  and  cred- 
itable example  of  physical  manhood  as  well. 
Love  of  beauty  has  been  held  in  disrepute 
as  a  pagan  ideal  of  life  with  which  the  less 
we  had  to  do  the  better.    But  as  we  reach  a 

17 


srtie  JWaifeinfl  of  J^rtsonalitff 

juster  appreciation  of  our  human  needs,  it 
takes  its  place  as  one  of  the  three  requisite 
factors  of  human  character,  along  with  the 
love  of  truth  and  the  love  of  goodness.  And 
it  does  not  seem  that  any  well-chosen  care 
we  can  bestow  on  physical  education  can  be 
unimportant  or  undignified,  or  that  any  ele- 
ment of  culture  is  more  needful  than  the  per- 
fecting of  our  bodily  powers  and  the  main- 
taining of  them  in  all  their  normal  fitness  and 
growing  vigour. 

**  Let  us  not  always  say, 
*  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 
I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole !  * 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings. 
Let  us  cry,  *  All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh 
helps  soul!'" 

/Physical  culture  does  not  emphasize  phys- 
/ical  consciousness.  On  the  contrary  it  mini- 
mizes it.  Just  as  being  well  dressed  prevents 
one  from  being  conspicuous,  so  being  well 
[trained  and  in  good  condition  physically 
\gives  one  immunity  from  inordinate,  intem- 

i8 


perate,  ill-regulated  habits,  and  brings  us  to 
a  normal  happy  state  of  unselfconscious  free- 
dom. 

While  general  lack  of  taste  in  the  art  of 
living  is  only  too  prevalent,  and  prevents  us 
from  being  sensitive  enough  to  our  physical 
defects^  the  overstrained  and  artificial  condi- 
tions of  modern  life  tend  to  aggravate  those 
defects  and  to  make  it  imperative  that  we 
should  carefully  reinforce  and  regulate  our 
physical  knowledge  and  procedure,  correct- 
ing faults  and  supplying  ourselves  with  legit- 
imate standards  of  human  excellence.     Such 
growth  of  ideals  and  of  excellence  can  only 
be  achieved  by  education  and  training.    And 
in  the  domain  of  physical  culture  as  in  any 
other,  education  must  begin  with  the   rudi-    I 
ments.      The    first    rudiment    of-— b^^uly    is  ' 
health,  one  of  the  first  rudiments  of  grace  is  *. 
a  good  walk,  the  first  rudiment  of  a  pleasant  i 
speaking  voice  is  the  ability  to  breathe  freely,  j 

It  always  seems  a  little  absurd  to  us  grown  | 
people  at  first  that  we  should  need  to  learn  ; 

X9  ' 


how  to  walk,  or  to  breathe,  or  to  speak.  We 
protest  that  these  are  matters  of  instinct,  that 
we  can  do  everything  of  the  kind  much  better 
if  we  are  allowed  to  do  it  naturally,  and  that 
if  we  were  to  permit  ourselves  to  be  instructed 
we  should  become  affected  and  artificial. 
This  might  be  true  if  we  were  animals  living 
a  free  and  primitive  life,  or  if  we  were  ideal 
humans  living  a  correspondingly  free  and  de- 
veloped life,  but  we  are  not.  The  condi- 
tions under  which  man  attained  his  bodily 
form  and  vigour  and  habits  of  motion  have 
been  dangerously  modified  by  civilization, 
and  many  of  the  demands  which  modern  life 
lays  upon  us  tend  directly  to  diminish  our 
physical  perfection  and  efficiency,  rather  than 
to  foster  and  help  them.  There  is  danger 
that  we  may  lose  the  natural  habits  of  free, 
spontaneously  graceful  human  motion,  be- 
cause of  the  lessening  need  and  opportunity 
for  bodily  exertion  in  many  occupations,  and 
the  demand  for  cramping  and  harmful  excess 
of  highly  specialized  exertion  in  others. 

20 


As  human  society  is  constituted  to-day, 
many  of  our  most  coveted  occupations  call 
for  no  physical  exertion  whatever.  The  more 
diligently  we  prosecute  our  nervous  and  se- 
dentary callings,  the  less  physically  fit  do  we 
become.  While  our  primitive  brother  could 
not  devote  himself  to  the  simple  business  of 
his  life  without  growing  thereby  in  bodily 
health  and  vigour,  we  men  and  women  unfor- 
tunately cannot  devote  ourselves  to  the  affairs 
of  modern  life  without  depleting  whatever 
store  of  energy  and  health  we  may  possess. 
As  long  as  we  can  sit  upon  a  chair,  like 
Browning's  Grammarian,  "  dead  from  the 
waist  down,"  we  can  still,  after  an  accepted 
fashion  at  least,  follow  our  chosen  pursuits. 
We  are  under  no  such  direct  and  imperative 
incentive  to  keep  ourselves  strong,  as  they  of 
earlier  simpler  times  encountered. 

Many  occupations,  moreover,  which  do 
call  for  active  bodily  exertion  are  so  special- 
ized as  to  cramp  and  distort  and  diminish 
physical  development  rather  than  to  help  it. 

21 


2CJie  M^fiitia  of  j^ersonalUff 

So  that  there  is  almost  always  and  everywhere 
a  tendency  towards  general  inefficiency  and 
physical  perversion,  as  the  natural  man  comes 
under  the  more  or  less  artificial  conditions  of 
contemporary  life,  whether  of  luxury  or  la- 
bour, —  conditions  no  less  exacting  and  in 
many  ways  much  less  wholesome  than  of  old. 
jNeither  the  office,  the  factory,  the  school- 
room, the  shop,  nor  the  drawing-room,  is 
capable  of  producing  an  admirable  type  of 
physical  manhood,  or  supplying  those  activ- 
ities which  call  forth  fine  bodily  powers  and 
develop  them  to  the  point  of  adequate  per- 
fection. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  our  motion 
should  be  in  danger  of  losing  its  primal 
strength  and  grace,  and  that  so  many  of  us 
grow  awkward  and  constrained.  Such  bad 
habits  become  confirmed  and  transmitted, 
and  we  hardly  even  inherit  symmetrical  and 
unhampered  physiques  or  natural  motion. 
Unfortunate  mannerisms  of  carriage  and  ges- 
ture and  voice  are  often  our  heritage,  even  if 

22 


we  acquire  no  new  defects  for  ourselves.  It 
may  have  been  natural  for  an  Indian  or  a 
South  Sea  Islander  to  walk  well,  with  no 
more  training  than  his  unvitiated  instinct  sup- 
plied; he  would  have  had  a  free,  unperverted 
body  at  his  command;  and  then  his  walk  and 
motion  would  have  been  his  natural  express- 
ive meeting  of  a  requirement.  It  does  not 
by  any  means  follow  that  the  city-born  man 
will  have  the  same  instinctive  faculty.  He 
may  never  have  to  run  a  step  nor  take  a  deep 
breath  in  his  life,  nor  ever  have  felt  any  in- 
centive to  realize  his  best  personal  prefer- 
ence through  bodily  exertion.  The  need  of 
a  capable  sound  physique  is  not  borne  in  upon 
him  every  hour,  as  it  was  upon  men  long  ago 
when  all  life  went  on  out-of-doors.  The  pos- 
session of  grace  and  strength  may  seem 
mildly  pleasant  and  valuable,  but  it  can  hardly 
appear  to  him  an  instant  matter  of  life  or 
death.  He  is  not  hourly  pressed  upon  by  cir- 
cumstances that  call  for  all  his  best  bodily 
efforts,  and  so  constantly  develop  his  forces 

23 


and  faculties,  his  deftness,  skill,  strength,  and 
promptness  of  action. 

Animals  in  their  wild  state  are  strong  and 
graceful  of  necessity,  since  they  must  move 
with  the  utmost  economy  of  motion  or  be 
eliminated  for  their  blundering.  Their  ex- 
istence as  individuals  depends  upon  their  per- 
fecting to  the  utmost  what  is  normal  in  their 
kind.  To  be  awkward  is  to  stand  in  jeopardy 
of  the  very  life.  To  be  wasteful  of  strength, 
to  be  inadequate  in  motion,  are  sins  in  the 
natural  world  that  are  visited  with  the  dire 
punishments  of  hunger  and  death.  There 
there  is  no  respect  for  average  excellence,  no 
indulgence  of  any  fashionable  weakness  or 
perversion  of  primal  powers. 

The  primitive  man  was  necessarily  and  nat- 
urally graceful  for  similar  reasons.  His  free, 
wild  life  in  the  open  compelled  him  to  be 
constantly  at  his  best.  He  could  not  shirk, 
nor  be  indifferent,  nor  allow  himself  to  get 
out  of  training  with  impunity.  The  world 
about  him  was  a  huge  and  hostile  environ- 

24 


ment,  which  yielded  him  a  living  indeed,  but 
which  compelled  him  to  be  always  up  to  the 
standard  of  normal  manhood,  and  visited  any 
deflection  with  a  ruthless  punishment.  His 
life  depended  upon  his  dexterity,  precision, 
and  fleetness  of  foot,  on  eye  and  wind  and 
agility.  His  physique  was  beautiful  because 
it  was  fit;  and  it  was  kept  fit  and  normal  by 
continual  exercise  in  the  most  rigorous  school 
of  necessity,  —  a  school  which  compelled  ex- 
peditious, effective,  and  unwasteful  perfec- 
tion of  activity,  and  commensurate  develop- 
ment. 

With  moderns  the  case  is  very  different. 
The  struggle  for  life  is  as  keen  as  ever,  but 
its  base  has  been  shifted.  It  is  less  a  case  of 
the  survival  of  the  strongest  than  of  the 
shrewdest.  The  likeliest  to  maintain  himself 
among  his  competing  fellows  has  come  to  be, 
not  the  man  of  greatest  muscle,  but  the  man 
of  keenest  calculation.  Modern  life  has  be- 
come a  battle  of  Machiavellian  wit,  rather 
than  of  human  strength.     We  have  not  al- 

25 


tered  the  law  of  evolution,  but  we  have  al- 
tered its  conditions  and  deflected  its  course. 
Popular  selection,  instead  of  producing 
strong,  graceful  and  delightful  persons,  pro- 
duces exceptional,  overmentalized  and  often 
malign  ones.  That  is  the  unwholesome  ten- 
dency of  the  modern  business  world,  against 
which  we  have  to  guard.  It  is  a  tendency 
that  so  exaggerates  the  mental  faculties,  that 
they  need  more  than  ever  before  the  backing 
of  strong  uncompromising  moral  qualities, 
and  the  reinforcement  of  vigorous  physique, 
if  we  are  to  profit  by  the  value  of  our  ad- 
vancement or  realize  the  happiness  to  which 
we  aspire.  The  universal  and  instinctive  en- 
joyment of  outdoor  life  and  exercise  is  proof 
of  the  validity  of  any  claim  for  wholesome 
living,  and  for  such  education  as  shall  help 
us  to  get  the  utmost  physical  good,  in  health 
and  pleasure,  out  of  our  possibilities  and  lim- 
itations. 
r  Since  we  no  longer  live  under  the  rigorous 
/  necessities  which   produced   and   determined 

26 


©tie  J«ean(nfl  of  ^tvnonmts 

our  physical  powers,  in  the  course  of  human 
evolution,  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  those  \ 
powers  can  be  retained  unimpaired  without  ■ 
wise  and  deliberate  fostering.  Our  physical 
development  needs  our  most  intelligent  care 
and  determined  cultivation.  In  return  it  can- 
not but  repay  our  painstaking  with  added 
health  and  sanity  and  happiness.  We  must 
remember,  however,  that  the  mere  supplying 
of  haphazard  exercise,  no  matter  how  ample 
and  stimulating,  is  not  alone  enough  to  pro- 
duce the  best  results  in  physical  development. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  our  customary? 
responsibilities  allow  little  time  out  of  each 
day  for  physical  recreation  pure  and  simple; 
yet  even  the  busiest  life  offers  more  possibili- 
ties of  that  sort  than  is  realized,  and  would 
gain  rather  than  lose  by  the  utilization  of 
every  such  opportunity.  Then,  too,  there  are 
best  ways  of  doing  all  the  enforced  work  one 
has  to  do,  —  best  ways  of  sitting  and  standing 
and  breathing  and  moving,  so  as  to  get  a  min- 
imum of  detriment  and  a  maximum  of  bene- 

27 


2rt)r  ifttaftCna  of  ^tvnon^Uts 

fit  from  our  lab^ourj  even  though  it  be  drudg- 
ery. No  labour,  however  menial,  but  can  be 
made  to  yield  its  quota  to  our  physical  well- 
being,  if  performed  with  intelligence  and 
spirit.  Drudgery  is  in  the  drudge,  not  in  the 
task. 

This  is  the  chief  use  of  physical  education, 
as  of  all  other,  to  fit  us  for  the  perform- 
ance of  necessary  work,  —  no  mere  training 
that  is  made  up  of  incoherent  and  unrelatable 
gymnastic  diversions,  or  athletic  excesses,  but 
a  veritable  and  beneficent  education,  as  sci- 
entific as  engineering,  as  ethical  as  religion, 
and  as  artistic  as  the  best  sculpture. 

Such  an  ideal  physical  training  would  not, 
of  course,  correct  all  the  ills  under  which  we 
live,  but  it  would  certainly  go  far  to  help  us. 
Social  ideals  have  to  be  modified,  social  insti- 
tutions reformed,  continually,  so  that  life  may 
be  kept  balanced  and  sane,  —  so  that  the  indi- 
vidual may  have  something  like  a  fair  chance 
for  free  development  of  all  the  human  facul- 
ties of  body,  heart,  and  brain.    Our  own  age 

28 


JCtie  Mtnnins  of  ^tvnonnUtp 

is  as  much  in  need  of  this  healthy  growth  as 
any  other.  But  quite  apart  from  these  con- 
siderations of  social  readjustment,  the  fact  is 
to  be  noted  that  modern  life,  with  its  distorted 
demands,  its  crazy  haste,  and  its  foolish  ab- 
sorption in  affairs,  is  directly  responsible  for 
any  physical  deterioration,  and  that  we  can 
only  maintain  our  normal  physical  standard 
of  excellence  and  efficiency  by  deliberate  and 
adequate  care. 

Exercise  is  only  the  outward  modifying  cTr^ 
cumstance  which  moulds  our  physical  powers, 
and  must  be  accurately  adjusted  to  the  laws 
of  remedy  and  growth,  in  order  to  yield  the 
best  results.  It  has  the  inward,  living,  con- 
trolling force  of  personality  to  reckon  with. 
Unless  we  recognize  this  truth  and  proceed 
upon  it,  all  our  systems  of  physical  education 
must  remain  futile,  —  as  they  so  largely  are. 
Man's  body  is  the  product  of  evolution,  in- 
deed, but  that  evolution  includes  also  the 
growth  of  his  spirit  and  intelligence,  which 
find    their    only    manifestation    through    his 

29  I 


physical  being.  Free  life  in  the  open  may 
give  us  opportunity  for  good  motion  and  fine 
carriage,  but  even  under  the  most  favourable 
conditions  habitually  fine  carriage  and  good 
motion  can  only  spring  from  nobility  of  char- 
acter. Dignity,  grace,  dexterity  are  physical 
traits,  if  you  will,  but  they  are  incompatible 
with  an  unintelligent  and  depraved  nature. 
We  have  therefore  to  take  into  consideration 
the  essential  threefold  unity  of  personality  in 
any  attempt  at  education,  —  the  indivisible 
relation  between  body-building  and  charac- 
ter-building.T  We  have  to  make  sure  that  we 
are  well  supplied  with  dignified  and  gracious 
ideals  that  shall  induce  and  stimulate  worthy 
growth  of  character,  while  inspiring  and 
establishing  fine  habits  of  plastic  motion  for 
its  spontaneous  expression. 

The  cultivation  of  beautiful  motion  is  an 
avenue  to  the  attainment  of  great  personal 
lQY£l+ne§s,  and-i&  available  to  all.  For  grace, 
that  is  to  say  good  motion,  is  one  of  the  most 
alive  and  potent  sorts  of  beauty,  exercising  a 

30 


JCtie  Jtteaninfl  of  ^tvnonmts 

subtle  but  incalculable  influence;  and  while 
perfection  af  form  and  feature  is  largely  be- 
yond our  own  control,  the  charm-of  pleasing 
motion,  with  the  improvement  in  look  and 
bearing  which  it  gives,  is  almost  immediately 
attainable,  and  is  instantly  impressive.  We 
are  accustomed  to  think  of  a  fine  carriage  as 
a  becoming  accomplishment  or  a  fortunate 
accident;  we  seldom  account  it  a  result  of  .. 
character,  —  an  inevitable  expression  of  indi-V-^ 
vidual  personality.  It  does  not  usually  occur 
to  us  to  interpret  what  it  means,  and  what 
tj-afts  it  indicates.  Yet,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, it  always  conveys  an  impression;  and 
voluntarily  or  involuntarily,  it  always  betrays 
character.  Aad,  if  we  wish  to  cultivate  or 
enhance  physical  personal  beauty,  we  must 
inculcate  this  truth  of  the  close  relationship 
between  the  physical  being  and  the  inward 
character,  and  the  influence  of  the  one  on  the  z'^') 
other.  Beauty  is  the  expression  of  noble  in- 
telligence.'' 'Personal  charm  and  grace  are  the 
manifestation  of  fundamental  values  inherent 

31 


SCfje  JWaftinfl  of  J&tv^onulits 

in  the  individual.  It  is  impossible  to  culti- 
vate personal  beauty  and  physical  perfection 
in  ourselves  and  in  the  race,  without  first  hav- 
ing ideals  of  perfection  of  spirit  and  under- 
standing. The  aid  of  goodness  and  truth  must 
always  be  enlisted  to  accord  with  our  aims 
for  the  achievement  and  maintenance  of 
beauty,  whether  in  life  or  art,  or  personal 
culture.  To  build  a  structure,  we  must  first 
have  a  design.  Our  outward  self  is  built  and 
rebuilt,  moment  by  moment,  by  our  inward 
self,  and  is  the  true  expression  of  our  thoughts 
and  emotions;  just  as  the  beautiful  outward 
world  of  nature  is  created,  moment  by  mo- 
ment, and  is  the  true  expression  of  a  benefi- 
cent purposeful  energy. 

'he  human  body  in  every  tissue  and  move- 
ment is  but  the  living  simulacrum  of  the 
mind  and  soul  that  pervade  it.  It  can  never 
be  given  a  fair  and  lovely  seeming,  —  dignity 
and  charm  and  grace,  —  by  any  attempt  to 
affect  these  attributes,  since  they  are  spiritual 
attributes   as   well   as   physical,  —  manifesta- 

32 


tions  of  kindly  sincerity,  not  of  selfish  artifice. 
Any  body  need  only  be  made  a  plastic  and 
obedient  vehicle  or  medium,  faithfully  re- 
vealing fine  spirit  and  intelligence,  in  order 
to  realize  the  utmost  physical  beauty  of 
which  that  person  is  capable,  and  to  gratify 
the  most  aesthetic  demand. 

All  motion,  whether  self-conscious  or  not, 
has  meaning;  and  one's  bearing  —  the  pres- 
ence with  which  one  fronts  the  world  —  is 
an  irrefutable  revelation  of  oneself.  Per- 
sonal beauty  and  graceful  motion,  a  charm- 
ing manner  and  a  musical  voice,  are  valuable 
powers  that  may  be  cultivated  and  attained 
in  some  degree  by  all,  just  as  health  and  vig- 
our may  be.  But  they  cannot  be  acquired  as 
mere  elegant  accomplishments,  the  affected 
externals  of  a  fashionable  education,  to  be 
learned  by  precept  or  imitation.  So  consid- 
ered, they  become  nothing  more  than  a  trans- 
parent veneer  over  ignorant  vulgarity,  a 
sham  polish  that  very  badly  imitates  good 
breeding.      Real    gracefulness    of    bearing, 

33 


charm  of  manner  and  speech,  are  truly  the 
"  outward  and  visible  signs  of  an  inward  and 
spiritual  grace."  ^^Tiey  give  eloquent  utter- 
ance to  significant  personality.  Being  subject 
to  definite  natural  laws  of  expression,  not  to 
be  learned  by  rote  nor  taught  by  rule,rth^y 
must  be  developed  as  normal  means  of  ex- 
pression, if  they  are  to  be  acquired  at  their 
best;  and  they  must  only  be  exercised  as  nat- 
ural avenues  of  sincere  expression  if  they  are 
to  be  retained  in  their  legitimate  normal 
freshness.  When  so  acquired  and  so  used, 
they  can  never  be  artificial  nor  fictitious  nor 
insincere;  they  are  then  what  they  were 
made  to  be  by  nature,  spontaneous  character- 
istic traits  of  the  individual^^^lending  him 
identification,  distinction,  and  magnetism. 

To  cultivate  fundamental  means  of  expres- 
sion is  merely  to  take  care  of  certain  faculties 
and  powers  already  in  our  possession,  and  for 
which  we  are  responsible.  This  should  con- 
stitute a  most  vital  and  practical  part  of  any 
liberal  education,  since  education  surely  can 

34 


have  no  other  aim  than  this,  —  to  liberate  the 
mind  and  spirit,  to  set  them  free,  to  put  them 
in  possession  of  their  lawful  dominions,  to 
help  them  realize  and  utilize  themselves,  to 
increase  still  more  their  growing  powers  for 
beneficent  influence,  so  that  human  person- 
ality may  reach  its  happiest  normal  devel- 
opment. Culture  of  the  body,  like  culture  of 
the  mind,  must  be  a  real  education  of  the  in- 
dividual, not  the  mere  acquisition  of  tricks, 
if  it  is  to  hold  its  rightful  place  in  educational 
and  general  esteem  and  fulfil  the  largest 
measure  of  its  usefulness. 

It  is  the  quality  of  exercise,  rather  than  its 
quantity,  that  needs  consideration.  The  at- 
tention we  give  it  is  perhaps  already  sufficient 
in  amount;  it  is  requisite  that  we  should  see 
that  it  is  adequate  in  value  also,  and  that  it 
is  rightly  related  to  other  branches  of  per- 
sonal culture,  if  it  is  to  be  accredited  with  its 
legitimate  place  and  importance  in  any 
scheme  of  human  improvement. 

Voice  and  motion  are  primarily  faculties 
35 


JSCiie  i«aft(n0  of  JJrtsonaUts 

of  expression,  and  can  best  be  cultivated  only 
as  such.  The  laws  which  govern  their  use 
are  the  laws  which  govern  all  art.  In  the 
person  of  the  actor  they  must  be  brought  to 
perfection  and  held  in  readiness  to  be  utilized 
in  his  art  of  characterization.  He  exempli- 
fies the  possibility  of  making  any  discrimina- 
tion between  the  art  of  expression  and  the 
individual  use  of  our  faculties  of  speech  and 
motion.  He  reminds  us  that,  while  few  of 
us  are  actors  portraying  the  moods  and  pas- 
sions of  imaginary  characters  by  deliberate 
imitation,  we  are  all  of  us  every  instant  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  betraying  emotions 
of  our  own.  And  the  means  at  our  command 
are  precisely  the  same  as  his  in  kind,  though 
in  a  much  less  perfect  state  of  development 
and  control.  The  master  of  his  indubitable 
art,  he  makes  use  of  no  other  media  of  expres- 
sion than  we.  But  with  his  intelligent  com- 
mand of  his  art  he  is  able  to  express  exactly 
what  he  means  to  express,  while  we  on  the 
other   hand,   through    lack   of   such   control, 

36 


through  defective  education  and  bad  habits 
of  imitation,  express  much  that  we  would  not 
express,  and  fail  to  express  much  that  we 
think  and  feel  and  long  to  be  accredited  with. 
The  truth  is,  no  man  can  speak  or  move  with- 
out definitely  expressing  something;  which 
makes  it  obviously  desirable  that  expression 
be  educated  and  devoted  to  the  highest  hu- 
man service. 

So  inexorable  are  the  laws  of  expression 
under  which  we  live  and  move  and  have  our 
being,  that  the  tortuous  soul  can  never  quite 
hide  any  duplicity  from  the  keen  observer, 
nor  true  nobility  be  mistaken  for  pinchbeck. 
Training  in  the  fundamental  principles  of 
expression  —  the  acquiring  of  good  habits  of 
speech  and  motion,  which  are  two  most  pri- 
mary factors  in  expression  —  is  therefore  not 
only  a  requisite  part  of  all  thorough  education 
of  personality,  but  a  constant  aid  in  the  dif- 
ficult matter  of  maintaining  a  worthy  con- 
duct of  life.  It  tends  to  make  us  directly 
masters  of  ourselves;    it  gives  us  insight  into 

37 


/" 


the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  others;  it  vents 
the  springs  of  generous  freedom  in  ourselves; 
its  principles  are  built  into  the  foundation  of 
all  culture,  life,  and  art. 

These  are  very  definite  reasons  for  main- 
taining that  wisely  adapted  physical  educa- 
tion is  as  much  needed  for  the  personality  of 
the  artist,  the  scholar,  and  the  man  in  the 
street,  as  for  the  athlete.  It  should  be  clear 
enough  that  no  great  achievement  in  art,  in 
science,  or  in  religion,  no  surpassing  stroke 
of  genius,  nor  any  masterly  human  dealing, 
can  be  expected  of  a  puny  or  perverted  peo- 
ple. That  in  itself  is  enough  justification  for 
scrupulous  care  and  culture  of  the  body.  But 
it  is  impossible  to  teach  good  motion  and  pure 
\  musical  tone-production,  without  thereby 
evoking  and  encouraging  the  growth  of  fine 
spirit  and  clear  thinking.  Tone  and  motion 
can  only  be  pleasing  and  beautiful  when  they 
have  sincerity  of  impulse  behind  them  and 
through  them,  and  are  executed  with  freedom 
and  skill.     It  follows  inevitably  that  to  instil 

38 


and  disseminate  habits  of  graceful  movement 
and  pleasing  speech  is  to  develop  through 
well-chosen  exercise  such  basic  qualities  as 
sincerity,  dignity,  and  kindliness  in  the  indi- 
vidual, and  honesty,  beneficence,  and  effi- 
ciency in  the  community.  The  raw,  crude, 
vulgar  manners  of  so  many  young  people, 
even  in  grades  of  society  where  better  things 
might  be  expected,  are  oftentimes  attributa- 
ble quite  as  much  to  ill-regulated  habits  of 
using  the  voice  and  the  body,  as  to  any  inten- 
tional discourtesy.  And  these  blemishes  van-  ^  J 
ish  as  if  by  magic  under  adequate  physical 
education,  —  a  wise  and  practically  selected 
cultivation  of  motion  and  speech.  An  awk- 
ward and  slovenly  gait,  a  boorish  and  un- 
lovely bearing,  a  strident  and  repellent  voice, 
forbidding  as  they  are  to  those  who  encounter 
them,  may  be  far  more  harmful  in  their  reflex 
influence  upon  the  nerves  and  temperaments 
of  their  unfortunate  possessors. 

Such  considerations  as  these  more  than  jus- 
tify a  plea  for  the  spread  of  the  best  physical 

39 


2rt)e  i«aft(nfl  of  jpersonalfts 

education,  training  that  is  not  only  good  for 
muscles  and  amusement,  but  that  betters  all 
our  effectiveness  and  satisfaction  in  life.  The 
evolution  of  such  a  standard  of  education 
would  create  a  necessity  for  teachers  of  such 
surpassing  wisdom  and  patient  skill  as  are 
almost  nowhere  to  be  found,  and  would  re- 
quire in  those  who  professed  it  not  only  a 
broad  fund  of  psychological  and  scientific 
knowledge,  but  a  distinct  genius  for  the  art 
of  their  calling,  —  an  art  far  greater  and 
more  consciously  creative  than  it  has  hereto- 
fore been  considered. 

To  such  a  philosophy  of  education  it  can- 
not seem  enough  that  physical  training  should 
be  conducted  as  a  separate  and  optional 
branch  of  work,  and  be  relegated  to  occa- 
sional supervision  of  overspecialized  teach- 
ers, who,  however  proficient  they  may  be  in 
gymnastics,  are  seldom  inspired  by  the  broad- 
est culture.  All  teachers,  of  whatever  subject, 
should  comprehend  the  principles  of  such  a 
symmetrical  educational  ideal,  and  should  be 

40 


versed  in  all  of  its  rudiments  at  least,  so  that 
they  may  have  a  wise  care  of  the  general  well- 
being  of  their  pupils  at  all  times.  It  should 
be  considered  quite  as  much  the  teacher's 
province  to  encourage  habits  of  good  motion 
and  fine  voice  as  to  inculcate  orderly  beha- 
viour and  clean  morals.  We  should  fare 
badly  if  our  only  training  in  ethics  were 
derived  from  a  half-hour's  lesson  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon;  just  as  inadequate  for  the  needs 
of  the  growing  body  must  be  a  half-hour  of 
calisthenics  once  or  twice  a  week. 

It  must  always  be  recognized  that  teaching 
is^ne_of__the_greatest  arts,  as  well  as  one  of 
the  noblest  professions.  It  may  be  claimed 
that  the  task  of  the  ideal  artist  is  to  make 
something  out  of  nothing,  to  disseminate 
ideals  by  giving  them  reality,  to  increase  the 
sum  of  happiness  in  the  world,  to  uphold 
lofty  standards  of  conduct,  to  make  the  god- 
like powers  of  goodness  and  reason  prevail 
against  the  Titanic  forces  of  ill;  but  it  is 
hardly  appreciated  that  the  task  of  the  ideal 

41 


teacher  is  equally  creative  and  far-reaching. 
He  deals  with  a  spiritual  art,  moulding  plas- 
tic personalities  to  human  perfection  by  his 
skill,  his  patience,  his  insight  and  his  genius. 
Such  incomparable  service  demands  the  nvDst 
comprehensive  culture  and  devotion,  and  is 
entitled  to  the  highest  honours  in  the  gift  of 
mankind  to  bestow.  Such  a  teacher  is  a  co- 
worker in  the  field  with  Christ  and  Buddha 
and  all  the  supremely  unselfish  souls  who 
have  devoted  their  lives  to  the  development 
and  betterment  of  the  life  of  our  kind.  Not 
until  we  recognize  and  encourage  this  essen- 
tial status  of  teachers,  can  we  expect  them  to 
fulfil  these  ideals,  or  hope  that  schooling  shall 
yield  the  best  possible  fruits  of  ideal  educa- 
tion. 


42 


(Bt,  Clje  "gJ'alue  of  f  nstinct 

The  value  of  instinct  is  its  incorruptible 
honesty.  Reason  may  err  and  palter  and  vary 
and  be  deceived  or  overborne ;  sentiment  may 
grow  false  and  stale;  both  may  be  deluded 
by  the  shows  of  circumstance,  the  force  of 
tradition,  the  dictates  of  authority,  the  voice 
of  calumny,  or  the  mere  inertia  of  habit.  But 
instinct  is  swerved  by  none  of  these  things. 
It  was  the  master  of  our  destinies  long  ago, 
when  we  were  first  emerging  from  chaos  and 
oblivion,  before  reason  was  achieved  or  sen- 
timent begotten,  playing  the  part  of  divinity 
in  our  strong,  restless,  obedient,  unconscious 

43 


2rt|e  iWaftinfl  of  jptrsonalitff 

bodies,  while  as  yet  error  of  judgment  and 
sadness  of  heart  were  scarcely  beginning  to 
be. 

In  the  earlier  world  instinct  taught  us  to 
forage  for  our  food,  to  engender  and  rear  our 
offspring,  to  preserve  the  precious  gift  of  life, 
to  avoid  danger,  to  seek  joy,  and  to  conquer 
fear.  Since  then,  in  the  long  course  of  evo- 
lution, as  we  have  come  to  call  the  story  of 
man,  the  teaching  of  instinct  has  been  over- 
laid with  a  mass  of  other  information,  —  all 
the  knowledge  which  awakening  mind  has 
discovered,  all  the  lore  which  the  growing 
emotions  have  accumulated.  Instinct  itself 
has  been  abandoned,  insulted,  almost  forgot- 
ten, and  its  invaluable  guidance  set  aside. 
Life  has  been  made  so  safe,  so  much  a  matter 
of  routine  and  comfort  and  custom,  that  our 
realization  of  the  need  of  the  services  of  in- 
stinct from  moment  to  moment  in  daily  life 
has  fallen  into  abeyance.  We  no  longer  rely 
upon  its  fresh  and  prompt  decisions,  but  refer 
all   perplexities   to  the  slow  adjudication   of 

44 


reason   or   the   uncertain   arbitration   of   the 
heart. 

True,  it  seems  to  be  the  destined  aim  of 
sentient  life  to  evolve  and  perfect  these  two 
gifts,  the  power  to  think  truly  and  the  power 
to  feel  deeply;  but  that  is  by  no  means  a  rea- 
son for  discountenancing  their  primitive  part- 
ner and  invaluable  helpmate,  a  keen  and 
active  instinct.  A  little  consideration  of  the 
subject  will  show  that  such  a  loss  must  prove 
fatal  not  only  to  the  outward  physical  life  of 
the  human  being,  but  to  the  inward  person- 
ality itself.  In  '^  The  Life  of  Reason,"  that 
book  full  of  wise  things,  Mr.  George  Santa- 
yana  says,  in  dealing  with  '^  Reason  in  Relig- 
ion," "  It  is  no  accident  for  the  soul  to  be 
embodied;  her  very  essence  is  to  express  and 
bring  to  fruition  the  body's  functions  and  re- 
sources. Its  instincts  make  her  ideals  and  its 
relations  her  world."  And  again  in  the  vol- 
ume on  "  Reason  in  Common  Sense,"  "  The 
soul  adopts  the  body's  aims;    from  the  body 


45 


> 


and  from  its  instincts  she  draws  a  first  hint 
of  the  right  means  to  the  accepted  purposes.'* 
M.  Maeterlinck,  with  his  incomparable  in- 
sight in  such  matters,  has  given  a  description 
of  instinct  in  his  essay  on  '^  The  Psychology 
of  Accident,"  which  leaves  little  more  to  be 
said  upon  the  subject,  save  to  reinforce  the 
profound  lesson  which  his  penetrating  de- 
scription suggests.  He  portrays  instinct  as  a 
humble,  tireless  drudge,  lodged  in  our  mortal 
tenement,  to  tend  and  care  for  all  its  more 
menial  necessities,  unrecognized  for  the  most 
part,  yet  ever  ready  to  spring  to  our  assistance 
whenever  any  need  arises,  rushing  instantly 
to  the  aid  of  its  slower  superior,  reason,  in 
moments  of  peril,  and  retiring  again  unrec- 
ognized and  unencouraged  to  the  obscure 
corners  of  its  dwelling.  In  his  own  words, 
*'  The  danger  once  past,  reason,  stupefied, 
gasping  for  breath,  unbelieving,  a  little  dis- 
concerted, turns  its  head  and  takes  a  last  look 
at  the  improbable.  Then  it  resumes  the  lead, 
as  of  right,  while  the  good  savage  that  no  one 

46 


dreams  of  thanking,  returns  in  silence  to  its 


cave." 


We  have  all  passed  through  that  experience 
of  being  rescued  by  our  faithful  savage,  and 
feel  how  true  this  description  is,  —  with  what 
terror  we  grasp  that  modest  and  surest  aid, 
and  how  nonchalantly  we  turn  from  it  the 
moment  our  panic  has  subsided.  For  the  cul- 
tivator of  personality,  bent  on  achieving  the 
most  normal  self-development,  the  point  is 
that  we  pay  far  too  small  heed  to  our  savage, 
and  for  the  most  part  treat  it  with  culpable 
and  costly  neglect  and  contempt;  when  in 
truth  it  is  quite  as  important  to  our  human 
happiness  as  proud  reason,  which  flatters  itself 
it  has  accomplished  such  wonders,  or  fastidi- 
ous moral  spirit,  which  has  had  unnumbered 
temples,  churches,  shrines,  altars,  basilicas, 
cathedrals,  mosques,  minsters  and  abbeys  built 
for  its  indulgence  and  gratification. 

These  pampered  and  sniffy  aristocrats  are 
apt  to  regard  their  unassuming  ally  as  much 
too  vulgar  and  anarchistic  to  be   associated 

47 


E^t  Jttaftinfl  of  Jletfiionalftff 

with  upon  equal  terms,  and  would  gladly  for- 
get him  and  his  affairs  if  they  could.  He 
must  shift  for  himself,  for  all  they  care,  and 
satisfy  his  own  wants  and  requirements  as  best 
he  can  without  any  intentional  aid  from  them. 
This  is  the  prime  and  monumental  fault  of 
civilization,  the  flaw  which  all  our  philoso- 
phy of  education  so  far  has  failed  to  correct, 
and  which  it  is  our  most  important  business 
to  amend.  We  have  somehow  allowed  this 
coolness  between  savage  and  angel  to  grow 
unchecked,  to  the  great  detriment  of  our 
human  nature.  Let  us  be  well  assured  that 
we  shall  in  no  instance  be  able  to  regain  or 
maintain  anything  like  normal  perfection  un- 
til this  breach  is  bridged,  and  instinct  and 
reason  are  brought  again  into  fullest  legiti- 
mate accord.  So  only  can  we  avert  chaotic 
and  otherwise  incomprehensible  sadness,  de- 
terioration, and  defeat  from  the  triumvirate 
of  personality,  so  omnipotent  when  at  peace 
with  itself,  so  vulnerable  when  distraught  by 
inharmony  and  misgovernment. 

48 


Instinct,  like  any  other  faculty,  may  be  edu- 
cated and  kept  growing  and  strong  by  exer- 
cise and  good  care,  or  may  be  allowed  to  be- 
come inept  and  useless.  Do  we  give  instinct 
decent  care  from  day  to  day?  Do  we  not 
rather  follow  the  modern  fashion  of  discoun- 
tenancing, repressing,  and  insulting  it,  like  an 
unwelcome  and  unappreciated  child?  Ac- 
cording to  popular  supposition,  instinct  is  an 
endowment,  something  like  one  of  the  senses, 
which  we  each  possess  in  a  definite  and  un- 
alterable degree.  But  that  notion  is  wrong. 
Instinct  is  not  like  the  hearing  or  the  eyesight, 
of  certain  more  or  less  fixed  utility  in  each 
person.  It  is  more  like  the  mind  itself,  capa- 
ble of  great  development  under  careful  cul- 
ture or  of  great  deterioration  under  neglect. 
By  most  people  instinct  is  classed  with  the 
least  spiritual  of  the  senses,  among  the  least 
noble  of  the  faculties  of  man,  a  part  of  that 
animal  heritage  which  a  false  theology  has 
taught  us  to  be  ashamed  of,  but  which  indeed 
we  must  foster  and  train  with  every  respectful 

49 


>< 


care,  as  an  ever  essential  help  in  human 
growth. 

Instinct  is  the  wisdom  of  the  senses,  and  the 
censor  of  all  our  wisdom.  All  the  experience 
of  sensation,  with  its  subtle  modifications  by 
thought  and  feeling,  through  countless  gen- 
erations of  life,  has  gone  to  the  making  of  that 
wisdom,  and  been  absorbed  by  the  species  in 
its  store  of  animal  consciousness  and  the 
equipment  of  that  fundamental  and  indis- 
pensable  faculty  which  we  call  instinct.  ^  And 
all  of  our  higher,  later,  or  more  rational 
knowledge,  including  our  thoughts,  aspira- 
tions, dreams  and  conclusions,  are  almost  val- 
ueless until  they  have  been  weighed  and  ap- 
proved  by  instinct.  '  Reason  alone,  splendid 
and  daring  as  it  is,  is  far  too  erratic,  youthful, 
vain,  and  visionary  to  be  entrusted  with  the 
entire  control  of  our  human  destiny;  it  must 
for  safety  pay  respectful  heed  to  the  more 
deeply  sympathetic  judgments  of  instinct. 

Instinct  cannot  become  educated  unless  it  is 
allowed  to  bear  some  part  in  the  problems  of 

50 


living.  It  is  a  valuable  third  judge  with  rea^ 
son  and  intuition,  and  together,  not  sepa- 
rately, they  direct  the  affairs  of  the  body,  the 
affairs  of  the  mind,  the  affairs  of  the  soul,  and 
adjudicate  the  ultimate  welfare  of  personal- 
ity. If  instinct  were  thwarted  and  repressed, 
and  allowed  to  operate  in  the  sphere  of  the 
senses  alone,  it  could  not  help  being  stultified 
and  dulled.  It  is  only  by  being  given  free 
scope  in  the  widest  range  that  it  can  be  kept 
happy,  keen,  growing,  and  competent.  When 
instinct  is  given  this  fair  opportunity,  it  will 
be  found  to  develop  and  serve  as  wonderfully 
and  widely  as  either  of  its  fellow  faculties  of 
spirit  and  mind,  and  to  yield  its  needed  quota 
to  the  sum  of  personal  happiness  and  worth. 

Instinct  must  help  to  govern  not  only  our 
food  and  clothing,  but  our  friendships,  our 
antipathies,    our   vocations,    our    recreations,  »• 

our  labour,  and  our  love.  Few  of  us  know  it 
sufficiently  even  in  its  most  primal  and  essen-  /^ 

tial  realms.-  We  are  so  accustomed  to  eat  and 
dress  by  rule  and  custom  that  we  often  forget 


i>, 


to  consult  instinct  in  the  matter,  greatly  to  our 
disadvantage.  How  often  we  eat,  not  because 
we  are  hungry,  but  because  it  is  meal-time! 
And  how  often  we  eat  whatever  is  most  con- 
venient or  customary,  without  consulting  our 
instinctive  appetite  at  all,  even  when  choice 
is  possible  and  an  abundance  is  at  our  com- 
mand. Eating  and  drinking  should  never  be 
matters  of  mere  routine  or  heedless  habit,  but 
always  of  normal  sensibility.  A  certain  reg- 
ularity is  not  to  be  despised,  but  inert  habit 
should  never  be  permitted  to  override  the 
alert  and  vital  instinct,  though  habit  also  has 
its  lawful  and  beneficial  uses.  And  in  the 
matter  of  the  appetites, (it  is  the  instinct  for 
ultimate  well-being  and  satisfaction  that  is  to 
be  consulted;  not  the  momentary  proclivity 
of  taste  and  inclination.  Only  a  few  articles 
of  food  are  universally  wholesome  and  nutri- 
tious. Each  individuality  has  its  own  idio- 
syncrasies of  diet;  shell-fish  are  poison  to  one, 
strawberries  to  another,  honey  to  a  third,  and 
so  on.     These  are  matters  for  each  one's  in- 

52 


stinct  to  learn  and  heed,  as  a  most  elementary 
lesson  in  common  sense.  But  a  trained  and 
respected  instinct  will  go  much  further,  and 
will  safely  guide  one's  preference  at  any  time 
for  the  nurture  and  protection  of  the  phy- 
sique, so  as  to  keep  it  always  wholesome  and 
fit. 

Instinct,  too,  might  help  beneficially  to  reg- 
ulate our  housing  and  clothing  more  than  it 
is  allowed  to  do.  We  are  inclined  to  wear 
our  clothes  according  to  seasonal  traditions 
and  fashions,  rather  than  according  to  the  feel 
of  the  weather  and  our  own  condition  and 
comfort.  A  little  heed  given  to  our  natural 
monitor  would  often  save  us  from  distressful 
cold,  dangerous  overheating,  and  poisonous 
asphyxiation;  for  it  will  unerringly  warn,  if 
only  we  are  accustomed  to  recognize  its  sig- 
nals, the  moment  we  step  into  the  street  or 
crowded  car,  or  lie  down  to  sleep,  whether 
or  not  we  are  sufficiently  or  excessively  pro- 
tected. '\^^ 

Quite  as  legitimately  also  is  instinct  entitled     W'' 
53 


to  its  voice  in  deciding  our  choice  of  acquaint- 
ances and  friends.  An  instant  aversion,  an 
unreasoning  but  definite  antipathy  to  this  per- 
son or  that,  is  not  as  foolish  as  chaotic  charity 
and  commercial  common  sense  would  lead  us 
to  believe.  And  we  often  overpersuade  our- 
selves, against  the  subtle  intimations  of  in- 
stinctive preference,  to  enter  into  relation- 
ships that  turn  out  disastrously  for  all  con- 
cerned, and  to  attempt  friendships  that  never 
could  be  worth  while,  when,  if  we  had  ac- 
cepted the  warning  of  our  genius,  we  might 
have  avoided  much  wasteful  experiment  and 
dismay.  Every  personality  has  its  natural 
antagonisms;  it  could  not  otherwise  have  any 
individual  inclination,  insistence,  or  influ- 
ence; and  it  is  a  waste  of  power  to  incur  un- 
necessary contact  with  these  antagonisms.  It 
is  the  business  of  instinct  to  avoid  such  waste 
and  whatever  is  inimical  to  well-being,  in  the 
realm  of  association  as  in  other  spheres,  —  to 
help  us  to  recognize  and  select  those  person- 
alities  best   suited    to    stimulate    our   happy 

54 


growth  and  enjoy  in  their  turn  whatever  hu- 
man helpfulness  we  may  possess.  It  is  only 
on  such  foundations  of  honest  comprehension, 
sympathy,  and  gladdening  utility  that  noble 
and  lasting  friendship  can  be  maintained. 

So,  too,  in  our  work  and  recreations.  This 
or  that  play  may  be  very  excellent  and  enjoy- 
able for  many  persons,  and  yet  not  suited  to 
your  needs  nor  mine  at  the  moment.  Ibsen, 
for  example,  though  an  admirable  dramatist, 
a  keen  and  beneficent  analyst  of  the  ills  of  the 
age,  may  very  possibly  for  you  be  unpleas- 
antly superfluous;  you  may  already  have  on 
your  hands,  to  say  nothing  of  your  heart  and 
head,  more  grievous  problems  than  you  can 
relish;  then  instinct  most  wisely  bids  you 
away  from  the  theatre  where  his  studies  are 
being  presented.  Be  not  deluded  by  any  false 
sense  of  intellectual  or  fashionable  obligation 
into  watching  his  horrors.  On  the  other  hand 
if  he  gives  you  what  you  need,  —  some  help 
to  realize  facts,  some  hint  to  think  of  things 
about  you,  —  obey  the  impulse  that  bids  you 

55 


Y 


seek  his  presentation  of  human  drama,  though 
you  have  to  stand  through  whole  perform- 
ances. This  same  obiter  dictum  is  true  of 
reading.  Let  us  read  nothing  that  we  instinc- 
tively dislike;  it  can  do  no  more  good  than 
food  for  which  we  have  a  natural  distaste. 
There  is  better  reading  wherever  honest  taste 
leads;  and  as  we  gain  therefrom  we  soon 
come  to  discard  the  worthless  readily  enough. 
Instinct  would  make  us  lords  of  ourselves, 
instead  of  dupes  of  charlatans  and  slaves  of 
fashion.  The  reliance  upon  instinct  relieves 
one  of  self-consciousness,  because  one  waits  to 
know  its  dictates,  instead  of  wondering  and 
worrying.  It  thus  makes  for  repose  and  se- 
renity, and  liberates  us  from  fussiness,  incer- 
titude, and  trepidation.  To  be  ashamed  of 
one's  instinct  is  like  being  ashamed  of  one's 
nationality;  it  may  be  desirable  or  undesir- 
able, but  to  be  ashamed  of  it  is  least  desirable 
of  all.  Instinct  is  a  most  democratic  faculty, 
endowing  us  with  a  sort  of  universal  language 
or    free-masonry    intelligible    to    people    of 

56 


every  race  and  condition.  At  the  same  time 
it  lends  distinction  and  charm  to  any  person- 
ality. Habitual  response  to  instinctive  im- 
pulse gives  an  air  of  high-bred  courage  to 
conduct  by  taking  av^ay  the  appearance  of 
hesitancy  and  calculation.  When  reason  is 
endorsed  by  comfortable  assurance  of  instinct, 
there  is  a  resulting  gladness  that  no  fantasies 
of  unsubstantiated  reason  can  hope  to  attain. 
It  is  instinct  that  pronounces  indisputable 
judgment  on  the  value  of  erudite  opinion  and 
the  worth  of  varied  experience.  ^> 


57 


(!^r,  Cije  (§uitiance  of  il^eason 

We  may  exclaim  with  the  sturdy  English 
poet,  if  we  will, 

*'  I  am  the  master  of  my  fate, 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul," 

and  still  find  our  craft  in  troublous  places  and 
sorry  plight,  if  we  persist  in  considering  cap- 
taincy all  sufficient  for  smooth  sailing.  The 
captain,  while  he  is  in  responsible  command 
of  his  ship,  is  not  the  only  person  of  impor- 
tance in  its  service.  In  clear  sailing  on  a  deep- 
sea  course  he  may  wield  undisputed  sway;  in 
dangerous    channels    and    among   unfamiliar 

58 


soundings  he  must  pass  his  command  to  a 
pilot.  It  is  the  business  of  that  functionary  to 
be  better  acquainted  with  the  perils  and  intri- 
cacies of  his  locality  than  the  high-sea  cap- 
tain need  be,  and  to  keep  the  craft  from  dis- 
aster, not  from  lack  of  seamanship  but  from 
lack  of  knowledge. 

The  simile  may  be  applied  to  human  be- 
ings. The  primacy  of  the  spirit  is  incontesta- 
ble, but  the  necessity  for  reason  is  incontesta- 
ble also.  Not  only  must  every  personality  be 
captained  by  its  soul,  it  must  also  be  piloted 
by  its  own  intelligence.  Whatever  course  the 
untutored  will  may  wish  to  venture  upon 
needs  to  be  examined,  adjudged  and  steered 
by  the  understanding.  Reason  deals  with  our 
affairs  in  a  strictly  practical  fashion.  It  ruth- 
lessly revises  our  dreamful  purposes  and 
ideals,  with  regard  to  their  possibility  or  prac- 
ticability of  accomplishment  in  this  very  real 
world.  Our  captain  soul  would  have  us  sail 
on  and  on  into  some  beautiful  and  alluring 
glory,  where  all  seems  fair  and  innocent,  when 

59 


2Ci)e  iWaftinfl  of  ^ttnonnlii^ 

perhaps  wiser  reason  must  come  to  the  rescue 
and  warn  us  of  some  sunken  reef  directly  in 
our  path. 

The  soul  is  guileless  and  unsuspecting,  and 
seems  to  be  native  to  a  land  that  knows  no 
sorrow  nor  disappointment,  no  accident  nor 
evil,  and  to  be  experienced  only  in  an  eternity 
of  truth  and  beauty  and  goodness.  Left  to  its 
own  devices,  it  would  soon  and  often  come 
to  disaster  on  the  shores  of  this  world's  life. 
It  needs  the  more  canny  reason  to  come  con- 
stantly to  its  aid  in  all  issues  of  its  daily  course. 
In  a  state  of  ideality,  we  may  imagine  that 
the  soul  might  require  neither  chart  nor  pilot, 
but  could  sail  on  its  glorious  w^ay  unthreat- 
ened  by  obstructing  facts.  When  it  came  to 
take  upon  itself  mundane  existence,  however, 
it  needed  some  defence  against  the  world's 
fatalities,  and  so  reason  evolved  to  be  its  guide 
and  friend. 

The  spirit  of  man  with  all  its  soaring  and 
radiance  is  unsophisticated,  unadapted  to  its 
earthly  environment,  and  through  the  best  ef- 

60 


fort  of  a  long  lifetime  only  begins  to  learn 
the  lesson  of  wise  procedure  among  its  daily 
concerns.  With  this  difficult  task  to  accom- 
plish, we  can  ill  afford  to  overlook  or  slight 
any  possible  means  of  advantage,  and  yet  we 
recklessly  ignore  and  defy  reason's  splendid 
help,  and  allow  it  to  deteriorate  day  by  day. 
It  has  been  said  that  if  all  the  world  could 
stop  simultaneously  for  five  minutes  and  rea- 
sonably consider  the  real  values  of  life,  it 
would  thereupon  be  immediately  and  wholly 
converted  to  good.  Human  welfare  is  less  in 
need  of  new  facts  than  of  renewed  habit  and 
growth  of  power  in  utilizing  rationally  and 
fully  those  already  at  our  command.  The 
wisdom  of  the  cheerful  woodsman  who  knows 
little  beyond  the  facts  and  uses  of  his  habitat 
is  of  greater  human  value  than  the  encyclo- 
pedic and  chaotic  information  of  the  world- 
wanderer,  who  with  all  his  smattering  cannot 
make  life  seem  worth  while  an)rwhere.  The 
manipulation  of  knowledge  and  of  spirit 
proves  their  worth,  not  the  mere  possession  of 

6i 


them.  And  reason  is  our  supreme  manipu- 
lator. Plans  approved  by  reason  are  the  only 
ones  worthy  all  the  skill  that  execution  and 
devotion  can  acquire. 

When  effort  is  thus  put  forth  under  the 
careful  guidance  of  reason,  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  its  coming  to  nought,  even  though 
the  reason  be  faulty  and  the  art  faltering. 
The  very  rightness  of  the  process  accomplishes 
something,  if  only  in  strengthening  the  habit 
of  trying  in  the  best  way.  How  much  tardy, 
painstaking  and  misguided  diligence,  how 
much  befogged  aspiration  and  benighted  dis- 
content, may  be  avoided  by  simply  using  our 
pilot  honestly  and  opportunely.  The  sad  fal- 
lacy that  reason  is  incompatible  with  inspira- 
tion, detrimental  to  genius,  and  antagonistic 
to  art,  has  led  us  far  astray  in  our  search  for 
happiness  and  beauty,  and  has  grievously  re- 
tarded human  growth  and  gladness. 

As  the  time  for  a  pilot's  service  is  at  the 
beginning  and  the  close  of  a  voyage,  so  the 
most  serviceable  time  for  reason's  help  is  at 

62 


the  beginning  and  the  end  of  an  undertaking. 
When  we  have  once  fully  embarked  upon  a 
venture,  it  is  mere  childishness  to  cry  for  help, 
to  wish  we  had  taken  thought  sooner,  or  to 
hesitate  in  indecision.  Main  considerations 
must  be  weighed  before  setting  sail;  and  the 
sum  of  wisdom  may  be  profitably  reckoned 
afterward;  but  while  we  are  in  the  midst  of 
endeavour  there  is  little  time  for  successful 
calculation. 

<^appiness  is  never  the  result  of  mere  well- 
meaning.  The  best  intention  can  achieve  no 
satisfaction  for  itself,  save  through  the  aid  of 
intelligence  and  skill.  \  Our  utmost  longing 
for  felicity  will  prove  for  ever  futile,  unless 
we  can  supplement  it  with  some  command  of 
circumstance,  some  power  to  control  condi- 
tions and  to  fashion  procedure  to  our  will; 
and  this  we  can  never  do  without  promptitude 
and  clarity  of  understanding  and  judgment.  ^ 
Pure  volition  is  incapable  of  achievement,  a 
feckless  entity  without  mind  or  force,  if  such 
a  thing  be  conceivable. 

63 


Ciie  JHaitefng  of  J^etsonalftff 

To  the  sincere  and  eager  student  bent  upon 
finding  a  genuine  solution  of  the  difRcult 
problem  of  self-culture  or  the  making  of  per- 
sonality, it  must  surely  appear  that  no  over- 
specialized  development  can  make  for  perfec- 
tion, but  that  we  must  foster  our  triune  indi- 
viduality with  impartial  care.  Under  our 
present  educational  ideals  there  is  little  dan- 
ger of  mentality  being  neglected.  In  fact  our 
system  concerns  itself  almost  wholly  with 
training  the  mind;  and  with  that  aim  in  itself 
one  can  find  no  fault.  It  would  be  wrong  to 
say  that  any  intelligence  can  be  overcultivated, 
or  that  there  can  be  any  danger  of  being  over- 
educated.  There  is  very  great  danger,  how- 
ever, —  indeed  there  is  every  evidence,  —  that 
culture  and  personality  may  be  overmental- 
ized.  Many  a  person  has  been  given  exercise 
of  the  mind  out  of  all  proportion  to  that  be- 
stowed either  upon  the  physique  or  the  spirit, 
to  the  sorry  undoing  of  the  personality  as  a 
living  whole.  Of  higher  education  in  its  best 
and  symmetrical  sense  no  one  can  have  too 

64 


much ;  but  of  mere  book  knowledge  and  men- 
tal training,  which  is  almost  all  that  our  edu- 
cational system  offers,  one  may  easily  have  a 
disproportionate  amount.  The  highly  edu- 
cated person,  in  our  usual  understanding  of 
the  term,  is  proverbially  inept  and  inefficient, 
less  well  fitted  for  the  task  of  securing  and 
disseminating  a  creditable  degree  of  happi- 
ness in  life  than  many  an  illiterate  but  better 
balanced  man  or  woman.  The  developing  of 
any  one  of  the  three  phases  of  human  nature, 
at  the  expense  of  the  others,  must  inevitably 
lead  to  such  undesirable  result;  and  while 
our  present  standards  of  education  may  make 
scholars,  they  will  never  make  the  happiest 
possible  human  beings.  To  that  end,  educa- 
tion must  include  a  commensurate  recognition 
and  culture  of  physical  and  spiritual  values, 
in  the  assurance  that  the  mind  itself  cannot 
reach  even  its  own  finest  growth,  unless  fur- 
thered in  its  progress  by  a  refreshing  spirit 
and  an  invigorating  body. 

Inasmuch  as  the  chief  concern  of  life  seemsil 
65 


^ 


2rt)t  JHaftfnfl  of  Jpetsonalftff 

to  be  the  evolving  and  training  of  personali- 
ties, it  would  seem  sensible  to  make  our  mental 
training  such  as  will  readily  and  efficiently 
serve  all  requirements  that  body,  mind,  or 
spirit  may  make  upon  it.^  to  bring  our  intel- 
ectual  culture  to  bear  upon  the  hourly  prob- 
lems of  living  and  the  securing  of  happiness; 
to  pursue  our  cherished  schemes  with  success- 
ful intelligence;  in  shortj^^o  make  reason 
oTnrrrorTfs  utmost  aid  not  only  in  the  sphere 
of  thought  but  in  all  the  affairs  of  daily  health 

d  gladness. 

The  setting  aside  of  intellectual  life  as  a 
mere  refuge  from  the  difficulties  of  practical 
well-being  and  well-doing,  the  withdrawing 
ourselves  into  the  enchanted  kingdoms  of  pure 
science,  and  the  turning  of  our  responsibilities 
away  from  all  the  hard  problems  which  beset 
every  hour,  is  only  a  begging  of  the  question 
of  wisdom.  The  life  of  a  scholarly  recluse, 
absorbed  in  his  own  intellectual  preferences, 
may  be  excused  with  specious  arguments,  but 
it  may  also  be  criticized  as  a  shirking  of  the 

66 


main  issues  of  individual  conduct,  of  evading 
the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  securing  some 
form  of  that  healthy,  helpful,  and  joyous  life 
which  constitutes  the  first  dignity  of  man. 
Whatever  gratification  it  may  bring  to  the 
scholar  himself,  it  offers  no  solution  of  the 
universal  difficulty  of  best  living.  The  book- 
worm is  as  helpless  as  the  monk,  when  it  comes 
to  offering  any  effective  aid  to  confused  hu- 
manity in  its  task  of  finding  out  how  to  make 
success  and  happiness  out  of  the  materials  at 
hand.  Moreover,  neither  of  them  reaches  his 
own  best  possible  development  through  that 
method  of  self-absorbed  devotion  to  a  single 
phase  of  existence.  The  scholar  in  his  knowl- 
edge and  the  hermit  in  his  sanctity  are  as  far 
from  the  ideal  of  normal  manhood  as  the  man 
of  many  millions  under  his  burden, of  stocks 
and  bonds. /Tearnijig  aad- s^n-€*ity  ^j^of  vast 
value,  but  m^^-Atc  of  immediate  concern  to 
y^«-^3S^ifee  only  in  so  far  as  rf^ey  can  be  made 
to  illumine  and  better  iw^mSb  life.as-w^  ha^i^ 
to  live  tt'to-dapaFHi--h.ec6r*  What  the  soul  and 

67 


I  mind  might  accomplish  under  other  condi- 
tions cannot  profitably  concera  Wat  all,  but 
what  they  can  do  to  help  us  m  any  present 

^lace  and  hour  is  vital.  Their  only  compre- 
hensible value  and  obligation  is  to  enrich  and 
advance  the  interests  of  normal  personality  in 
its  arduous  progress  toward  perfection. 

For  every  one,  then,  the  question  is  not, 
How  much  can  I  know,  but  How  can  I  make 
such  intelligence  as  I  have  help  life  to  the 
utmost.  Perhaps  in  nothing  is  defection  at 
this  point  more  general  and  more  astonishing 
than  in  the  all-desirable  art  of  keeping  well. 
What  can  be  more  important  than  to  know 
how  to  care  for  one's  health  and  safeguard  it 
against  impairment?  And  yet  how  many  of 
us  have  any  adequate  understanding  of  the 
matter,  any  habit  of  using  such  hygienic 
knowledge  as  we  may  possess,  or  even  any  con- 
viction that  the  matter  comes  within  the  range 
of  our  responsible  control?  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  squander  health  without  heed,  and 
without  even  an  effort  to  realize  how  little 

68 


rational  care  it  would  take  to  preserve  our 
energy  from  undue  depletion  and  disease. 
When  sickness  overtakes  us  we  rush  to  a  physi- 
cian, and  when  the  emergency  is  past  we  blun- 
der on  as  before,  without  a  moment's  rational 
thought  given  to  prevent  a  recurrence  of  the 
disaster. 

In  these  days  sickness  is  a  disgrace.  But 
we  are  so  fond  of  considering  it  a  visitation 
of  the  will  of  God,  emotionalizing  over  its 
woes,  and  indulging  in  an  irrational  religious 
sentimentalism  concerning  them,  that  we  can 
hardly  bring  our  common  sense,  actual  knowl- 
edge, and  reasonable  skill  to  bear  upon  the 
question.  Doctors  are  not  wholly  to  blame  if 
they  devote  more  time  to  palliating  ailments 
than  to  maintaining  health.  Most  patients 
'^  enjoy  poor  health,"  prefer  pity  to  fair  play, 
and  demand  to  be  helped  by  some  remedy  they 
do  not  understand  rather  than  by  any  rational 
prevention.  If  serious  people  actually  realize 
what  detrimental  clothing  does  to  human  wel- 
fare, how  can  they  ever  condone  it?    If  they 

69 


once  fully  comprehended  the  benefits  of  a 
rational  attention  to  diet,  to  dress,  to  ventila- 
tion, to  exercise,  to  normal  walking,  talking, 
and  breathing,  to  tonic  bathing  and  to  sleep, 
what  would  become  of  sickness  and  prema- 
ture death? 

The  gain  to  be  derived  from  including  the 
guidance  of  reason  in  spiritual  matters  fills 
the  churches  of  those  teachers  and  preachers 
who  are  liberal  enough  to  try  the  experiment. 
Many  a  sound  moral  lesson  would  be  received 
gladly  were  it  reinforced  with  appreciable 
reason  rather  than  with  appeals  to  discredited 
dogmas  and  an  impossible  faith  in  unrealities. 
The  world  is  no  longer  to  be  ruled  by  fanat- 
icism and  superstition  at  the  expense  of  its 
growing  intelligence.  And  this  does  not  mean 
that  religion  is  to  be  belittled  nor  done  away; 
it  rather  means  that  it  is  to  be  honoured  the 
more,  —  its  uses  made  more  and  more  sane 
and  beautiful  in  conformity  with  the  growth 
of  standards  of  goodness  in  the  world. 

We  are  accustomed  to  mistake  love  for  a 
70 


wholly  supernatural  or  subnatural  matter,  and 
to  yield  to  it  as  to  an  emissary  from  Divinity, 
beyond  the  province  of  rational  guidance  or 
control.  And  yet  from  the  multitudinous  mis- 
takes that  are  made  in  love's  name,  it  would 
seem  that  in  no  other  realm  of  life  is  the  wise 
piloting  of  reason  more  necessary.  The  tragic 
plight  of  this  spiritual  domain  may  perhaps 
be  due  far  less  to  any  flaw  in  the  quality  of 
modern  feeling  or  any  shortage  of  means  for 
its  perfection,  than  to  the  wilful  exclusion  of 
reason  from  all  of  its  procedure.  Those  who 
set  out  on  voyages  of  loving  companionship, 
perhaps  the  most  difficult  of  all  adventurings, 
should  hardly  expect  propitious  sailing  with- 
out chart  or  pilot. 

In  care  of  our  pilot  reason  we  may  embark 
safely  not  only  for  ultimate  worthy  achieve- 
ment, but  immediately  upon  orderly  tides  of 
thought,  where,  as  in  the  realm  of  music, 
beauty  and  joy  are  unconstrained,  —  the  most 
easily  attainable  region  where  perfect  happi- 
ness is  to  be  found.    But  our  greatest  triumphs 

71 


in  the  art  of  living  will  come  from  following 
the  lead  of  our  best  rationality  in  cheerful  and 
painstaking  contest  against  the  forces  of  ad- 
versity, desolation,  and  despair,  and  in  ma- 
king upon  earth  a  home  for  the  unextravagant 
ideal. 


72 


(Bx,  Cfje  l^oWx  of  l^oist 

CC  "  The  human  body  is  adapted  to  the  ex- 
pression of  conscious  will,  and  this  is  free- 
dom. The  perfect  subordination  of  the  body- 
to  the  will  is  gracefulness.  It  is  this  which 
constitutes  the  beauty  of  classic  art:  to  have 
every  muscle  under  perfect  obedience  to  the 
will  — •  unconscious  obedience  —  so  that  the 
slightest  inclination  or  desire  of  the  soul,  if 
made  an  act  of  the  will,  finds  expression  in 
the  body."  » 

Dr.  T.  W.  Harris,  in  his  orderly  and  lu- 
minous work  on  Psychologic  Foundations 
of  Education,  uses  these  suggestive  words  in 

73 


discussing  the  harmonious  beauty  of  the  art 
of  sculpture  as  perfected  by  the  Greeks. 
They  might  well  serve  as  a  compendium  of 
philosophy  for  students  of  expression,  body 
training,  and  general  development,  so  con- 
cisely and  clearly  do  they  embody  the  essen- 
tial truth  underlying  all  art.  And  he  adds 
this  memorable  sentence,  which  ought  to  be- 
come a  watchword  with  all  teachers  of  phys- 
ical education,  and  indeed  with  all  teachers 
in  all  branches  of  education  who  are  worthy 
of  their  great  profession:  ''The  soul  is  at 
ease  in  the  body  only  when  it  is  using  it  as  a 
means  of  expression  or  action.^' 

There  we  have  in  plain  terms  the  secret 
not  only  of  the  principles  of  art  in  general 
and  of  the  art  of  physical  self-expression  in 
particular,  but  the  secret  of  their  relation  to 
intellectual  and  spiritual  education  as  well. 
There  surely  can  be  no  true  culture  that 
leaves  the  soul  ill  at  ease.  It  is  not  enough 
to  train  the  understanding  and  fill  the  mind 
with  stores  of  knowledge.     Both  mind   and 

74 


2Cf)e  WLitiQtXf  Tittovs 

spirit  must  be  given  free  and  adequate  exer- 
cise of  their  natural  functions,  and  opportu- 
nity for  worthy  expression  and  reinforcement 
of  their  powers.  Thus  only  can  the  inner  life 
with  its  lawful  desire  for  activity  be  allowed 
proper  and  beneficial  scope  and  range,  — 
thus  only  can  the  soul  be  made  at  ease  in  the 
body.  This  must  become  the  purpose  of  all 
culture,  and  it  cannot  be  accomplished  by 
mental  or  moral  training  alone. 

The  body  which  the  soul  inhabits  is  more 
than  a  mere  tenement,  it  is  an  essential  prop- 
erty of  the  soul,  the  exponent  and  purveyor 
of  the  mind,  the  outer  aspect  of  personality, 
the  art  medium  for  the  manifestation  of  spirit 
and  intelligence;  and  it  requires  just  as  care- 
ful consideration,  just  as  wise  education,  and 
just  as  high  perfection  of  technique  as  its  as- 
sociate powers  of  thought  and  feeling.  To 
educate  the  human  being,  —  to  give  it  the 
confidence,  the  delight,  the  satisfaction,  the 
power  and  repose  and  legitimate  perfection 
which    the    best    culture    can    bring,  —  care 

75 


must  be  taken  to  place  at  the  disposal  of 
every  lovely  spirit  and  brilliant  mind  a 
worthy,  sensitive,  and  capable  body,  and  to 
provide  each  individual,  so  far  as  possible, 
with  its  own  appropriate  physical  means  of 
activity  and  enjoyment. 

In  a  symmetrical  cultivation  of  all  our 
powers,  in  a  balanced  exercise  of  all  our  fac- 
ulties, the  volatile  treasure  of  personal  happi- 
ness is  most  likely  to  be  found.  If  we  indulge 
a  thirst  for  knowledge  irrespective  of  all 
other  considerations,  —  at  the  expense  of 
health,  kindliness,  and  comel^iness,  —  we  are 
doomed  to  find  our  acquisition  of  learn- 
ing an  unwieldy  and  disappointing  encum- 
brance. Such  unmodulated  knowledge  can 
never  become  wisdom,  but  must  remain  mere 
information,  bookish  pedantry^,  or  mechan- 
ical cleverness.  All  such  lore  can  avail  as 
little  as  untrained  thews  and  endurance  avail 
a  dunce.  We  can  never  be  personally  well 
equipped  with  only  one-third  or  two-thirds 
of   developed  being,   but  must  compass   the 

76 


Zftt  WLlnatXi  Tutors 

ideal  of  a  triune  balance  and  symmetry  of 
excellence,  as  the  only  adequate  measure  of 
perfection  for  every  individual  who  is  men- 
tally, emotionally,  and  physically  endowed. 
It  is  good  to  be  athletic;  it  is  good  to  be 
scholarly;  it  is  good  to  be  honourable,  pa- 
tient, loving,  and  helpful.  It  is  not  best  to 
be  an  ignorant  athlete;  it  is  not  best  to  be  a 
dyspeptic  bookworm;  it  is  not  even  best  to  be 
an  unhuman  fanatic.  Unillumined  brutality, 
selfish  insatiable  curiosity  and  vanity  of 
mind,  and  intolerant  righteousness,  are  all 
equally  unlovely.  It  is  obviously  best  to  be 
a  man,  with  the  strength  and  understanding 
and  honour  of  a  man. 

Ethical  culture,  mental  culture,  physical 
culture,  each  is  excellent  and  all  are  neces- 
sary, but  no  one  of  them  will  suffice,  indeed 
no  two  of  them  can  satisfy  without  the  third. 
Only  in  harmonious  and  well-balanced  co- 
operation can  they  further  that  highest  per- 
sonal development,  that  supreme  reach  of 
ideals  and  growth,  which  may  be  the  aim  of 

77 


any  one  of  them.  All  three  are  of  equal  dig- 
nity, importance,  and  delight,  and  no  one  of 
them  can  attain  its  best  efficiency  without  the 
aid  of  the  others  to  inspire  and  guide  and 
reinforce  it.  More  than  that,  their  spheres, 
which  seem  so  different,  are  really  not  dis- 
tinct nor  separable,  and  each  must  continu- 
ally either  cripple  or  complement  the  others. 
The  soul,  the  centre  and  source  of  volition, 
with  its  perceptions  and  aspirations,  ever 
leading  in  the  progress  to  perfection,  needs  to 
be  closely  seconded  by  intelligent  guidance 
and  carried  to  the  fullest  achievement  by  ade- 
quate skilful  execution.  We  need  never 
imagine  that  spiritual  attainments  can  be  suc- 
cessfully forced  at  the  expense  of  the  guides 
and  servants  of  the  spirit,  the  intellectual  and 
physical  powers.  We  must  care  before  we 
can  know,  and  we  must  know  before  we  can 
do;  nor  may  we  even  be  content  with  caring 
and  with  knowledge,  until  we  add  to  them 
well-skilled  effort  toward  the  realization  of 
our  ideals.     In  no  other  way  can  we  develop 

78 


and  appreciate  and  enjoy  the  power  of  per- 
sonal poise. 

The  practical  advantage  of  poise  and  its 
chiefest  sanction  is  the  opportunity  it  affords 
for  spiritual  precedence,  for  proving  the  pri- 
macy of  the  will  and  the  fortunate  prefer- 
ences of  the  soul.  It  makes  a  vantage  from 
which  the  best  may  be  attempted,  a  starting- 
point  from  which  the  avenues  to  the  fairest 
good  are  seen  to  radiate,  a  condition  from 
which  life  may  spring  normally  to  its  finest 
stature.  Poise  endows  us  with  power  to  stop 
and  consider,  to  use  our  intelligence  and  judg- 
ment, and  so  improve  through  every  contin- 
gency. Habitual  poise  is  the  essential  pre- 
requisite of  freedom  for  happy  endeavour 
and  satisfactory  growth. 

A  conception  of  the  value  of  personal  poise 
as  the  worthiest  ideal  of  education  was  em- 
phasized by  Cecil  Rhodes  in  founding  his 
Oxford  scholarships.  It  has  been  instinc- 
tively felt  by  students  themselves  as  a  legit- 
imate need  of  aspiring  human  nature,  but  it 

79 


2rt)e  iWiaitefns  of  J^etsonalitff 

has  not  yet  had  such  general  authoritative 
recognition  as  it  deserves.  Rhodes  helped  to 
give  it  practical  currency  and  prestige.  In 
effect  his  great  gift  is  a  criticism  of  our  in- 
complete system,  and  points  the  direction  in 
which  mediaeval  standards  of  culture  are  to 
be  enlarged.  It  calls  for  men  in  whom  schol- 
arship is  to  be  supplemented  by  correspond- 
ing physical  and  spiritual  excellence.  It  de- 
mands poise  of  character  rather  than  excess 
of  learning.  It  is  a  strong,  successful  man's 
endorsement  of  the  ideal  of  personal  poise. 

If  personal  poise  —  the  symmetrical  devel- 
oping and  perfecting  of  all  our  capacities  in 
the  building  of  character  —  could  be  made  a 
widely  accepted  ideal  of  culture,  it  would  do 
more  than  any  specific  social  revolution  to 
ensure  greater  happiness  for  all  mortals. 

Is  not  such  a  valuation  of  poise  really  the 
underlying  principle  we  try  to  reach  in  all 
attempts  to  simplify  living?  Is  not  the  satis- 
faction we  feel  in  any  such  simplification 
really  a  satisfaction  at  finding  ourselves  re- 

80 


8Cf)e  Wiinatrf  Tittovs 

stored  to  a  normal  poise?  Are  not  our  lives 
apt  to  be  unsatisfying  because  they  are  partial 
and  ill  balanced,  excessive  in  some  directions 
and  falling  short  in  others?  The  simple  life 
cannot  be  a  worthy  ideal  if  it  is  to  mean  a 
meagre  and  insufficient  life,  but  only  if  it  is 
to  mean  an  undistorted  and  well-balanced 
one.  Perfect  poise  seems  simple,  because  it 
is  so  unperplexing  and  wholly  satisfying.  To 
simplify  living  is  only  advantageous  and  ben- 
eficial in  so  far  as  it  permits  a  richer  and  freer 
and  more  complete  enjoyment  of  the  few 
pursuits  which  are  vital  and  worth  while. 
Our  average  life,  particularly  our  average 
city  life,  is  apt  to  be  overwrought  and  ill- 
regulated,  as  we  all  know.  To  return  to  sim- 
pler conditions  would  not  be  to  impoverish 
human  experience,  but  to  enrich  it;  we  should 
gain  in  health,  in  merriment,  in  leisure,  in 
wisdom  and  length  of  days;  we  should  lose 
only  our  anxieties,  our  ailments,  our  ill-tem- 
pers, and  our  debts.  There  can  hardly  be 
room  for  choice.     But  such  a  return,  let  us 

8i 


stir  JHaftinfl  of  ^tvnonmts 

remember,  can  only  be  successful  if  it  is  car- 
ried out  in  conformity  with  the  ideal  of  per- 
sonal poise,  and  with  the  threefold  needs  of 
personal  life  constantly  in  mind.  A  life 
somewhat  nearer  to  the  earth  than  we  live 
now  could  hardly  fail  to  be  more  vigorous, 
more  delightful,  more  normal.  Instead  of 
sensational  criminality,  frenzied  ambition, 
and  fashionable  artificiality,  we  should  be 
able  to  acquire  something  of  sincerity,  come- 
liness, and  kindly  joy. 

Slowly  but  certainly  the  truth  of  this  ideal 
is  coming  to  be  recognized.  The  need  for 
such  a  standard  is  felt  in  innumerable  ways, 
though  as  yet  we  may  not  definitely  discern 
its  import.  The  restless  spirit  of  the  patient 
world,  always  seeking  the  best,  has  been 
driven  from  one  extreme  point  of  view  to  an- 
other in  the  long  course  of  history,  confused 
by  the  clamour  of  the  senses,  the  cry  of  the 
soul,  and  the  insatiable  curiosity  of  the  im- 
perious mind.  Must  we  not  believe  that  it  is 
in  some  fortunate  hour  to  find  the  ideal  which 

82 


©tie  Wiinatti  Tittovs 

shall  make  possible  the  harmonizing  of  its 
seemingly  divergent  aims  and  expedients? 
What  if  the  ideal  of  symmetrical  develop- 
ment and  normal  personal  poise  should  prove 
just  the  saving  principle  it  seeks? 

As  poise  serves  as  a  happy  criterion  of  ex- 
cellence of  personality,  and  a  most  advan- 
tageous standard  of  culture,  so  in  physical 
training,  physical  poise  provides  us  with  the 
only  adequate  standard  of  physical  beauty 
and  efficiency.  Such  an  ideal  implies  the 
equal  development  and  control  of  every  por- 
tion of  the  body,  the  culture  and  maintenance 
of  its  every  perfection,  and  the  habitual  use 
of  all  its  powers  in  harmonious  accordance 
with  the  most  effective  and  economic  laws  of 
motion  and  growth.  To  be  able  to  attain 
such  poise,  the  body  must  be  made  strong 
and  free,  must  be  fostered  in  a  symmetrical 
growth,  and  above  all  must  be  considered  as 
the  inseparable  manifestation  of  the  inform- 
ing mind  and  the  indwelling  spirit.  More- 
over   physical    poise    can    only    be    attained 

83 


8Ciie  Jtlamno  of  J^ersonalitff 

through  the  ideal  of  personal  poise.  The 
first  physical  need  of  the  natural  man  is  for 
exercise,  but  for  us  moderns  there  is  one  thing 
even  more  needed  than  exercise,  and  that  is 
bodily  emancipation.  It  is  evident  that  the 
body  must  have  freedom  to  stretch  and  read- 
just itself  in  every  direction  before  it  can 
poise  itself  normally  and  adapt  its  poise  to 
any  and  all  conditions. 

We  speak  of  the  mechanism  of  the  human 
body,  with  its  many  joints  and  levers,  its  com- 
pensations and  balances,  and  its  complicated 
movements,  but  we  must  beware  of  consider- 
ing it  too  exclusively  as  a  machine.  It  is  so 
far  more  subtle,  significant,  and  adaptable 
than  any  mere  mechanical  contrivance,  so  sen- 
sitive, so  variable,  and  so  intelligent.  There 
is  infinite  ingenuity  in  these  human  mechan- 
isms, but  there  are  preference  and  sensibility 
and  responsibility  as  well,  all  within  an  al- 
most incredible  frailty  allied  with  amazing 
strength.  Our  bodies  have  many  of  the  char- 
acteristics of  a  machine,  but  they  have  also 

84 


2Cfie  WiinatXi  Tittoxs 

many  of  the  traits  of  a  self-active  intelligence, 
and  must  be  treated  accordingly. 

The  admirable  structure  of  the  animal 
skeleton  serves,  indeed,  to  lend  rigidity  to  the 
body,  but  it  also  serves  for  points  of  attach- 
ment of  elastic  muscles  whose  express  pur- 
pose is  to  modify  that  rigidity,  just  as  our 
senses  modulate  our  thought.  The  muscular 
system,  under  the  guidance  of  instinct,  seeks 
to  secure  the  safety  of  the  individual  by  not 
opposing  the  manifold  casualties  of  existence 
with  an  unyielding  solidity,  and  by  interpo- 
sing an  ever-ready  flexibility  that  lessens  shock 
and  avoids  breakage,  enabling  us  to  pass  tol- 
erably well  through  a  world  of  insensate  op- 
position, of  stress  and  resistance  and  friction. 

Power  to  spring  from  the  ground  and 
alight  again  without  fracturing  ourselves  is 
a  privilege  we  share  with  our  four-footed 
brothers  of  the  field.  In  jumping  they  do  not 
light  on  rigid  heels  with  straightly  stiffened 
legs,  like  a  table  dropped  from  a  window. 
A  fox  goes  over  a  wall  as  lightly  as  a  drift 

85 


of  snow,  and  even  an  elephant,  for  all  his 
huge  bulk,  seems  to  move  as  softly  as  a  mould 
of  jelly.  Though  few  of  us  can  be  as  grace- 
ful as  foxes,  we  may  all  avoid  cruel  shocks 
by  alighting  on  the  muscular  balls  of  the  feet 
with  spread  toes  and  flexed  knees.  The  im- 
petus of  the  body  may  thus  be  stopped  grad- 
ually, considerately,  without  violence,  almost 
without  impact,  by  the  intervention  of  mus- 
cular alertness,  strength,  and  elasticity,  under 
voluntary  adequate  control.  All  poise  and 
every  movement  of  our  bodies  should  have 
something  of  the  pliancy  and  ease  of  the  great 
cats,  those  paragons  of  grace  with  their  soft, 
undulating  strength,  their  powerful  quies- 
cence, and  noiseless  activity. 

It  almost  goes  without  saying  that  in  order 
to  move  well,  one  must  first  breathe  well,  sit 
well,  stand  well.  To  stand  well,  there  are 
two  things  chiefly  necessary,  first,  that  the 
chest  should  be  carried  well  up  and  forward, 
and  second  that  the  weight  should  balance 
pliantly  over  the  balls  of  the  feet  and  spread 

86 


2Cf)e  WHnattf  Ttctots 

toes,  —  a  spirited,  intelligent,  adaptable  body 
on  an  adequate  base  of  support. 

The  question  of  good  breathing  is  so 
closely  related  to  proper  carriage  that  the 
two  can  scarcely  be  considered  separately. 
It  is  hardly  possible  to  breathe  well  while  sit- 
ting or  standing  or  lying  improperly,  and  it 
is  not  practicable  habitually  to  stand  prop- 
erly without  breathing  well.  Good  breath- 
ing, like  fine  carriage,  requires  that  the  chest 
should  be  habitually  upheld  and  automatic- 
ally carried  by  the  well-developed  chest  mus- 
cles as  high  as  is  comfortable,  that  the  great 
life-giving  lungs  may  have  room  for  their 
utmost  utility.  And  this  condition  must  be 
maintained  whether  one  is  sitting,  standing, 
walking,  running,  dancing,  talking,  reading, 
or  working,  in  fact  through  every  hour  of 
life.  Particular  care  must  be  taken  not  to 
thrust  up  the  chest  by  overinhaling,  nor  by 
holding  the  breath,  nor  by  raising  the  shoul- 
ders, nor  by  making  the  rib  muscles  tense, 
nor  yet  by  an  undue  bending  backward  of 

87 


the  spinal  column  at  the  small  of  the  back. 
The  fonvard  carriage  and  uplift  of  the  chest 
must  be  secured  by  exercising  the  pull  and 
hold  of  the  muscles  of  the  chest  and  back  of 
the  neck,  the  stretch  of  the  rib  muscles,  and 
by  swaying  the  whole  body  forward  from 
foot  to  crown,  with  a  very  slight  mobile  for- 
ward bend  at  the  hips.  And  even  these  direc- 
tions must  be  taken  with  discretion.  The 
backbone  is  not  a  ramrod;  and  the  fashion 
of  pulling  the  hips  back  and  pushing  the 
chest  forward  with  perfectly  rigid  spine,  as 
if  the  body  were  only  jointed  at  the  waist,  is 
as  unlovely  as  any  other  abnormal  posture. 
The  human  body  is  not  a  flail,  with  only  one 
joint  in  the  middle.  At  its  best  it  is  as  flexible 
as  a  whip. 

"  Light  and  lithe  as  a  willow  wand. 
She  danced,  and  the  monarch  held  her  hand,** 

embodies  the  ideal  of  graceful  poise;  and  to 
attain  it,  gymnastics  for  poise  must  be  taught 
and  practised  until  the  muscles  grow  so  fitted 

88 


2Ci|e  WLitiQt'a  Ttctotff 

and  used  to  their  task  that  good  carriage  be- 
comes an  unconscious  habit. 

Other  requirements  of  good  breathing  need 
not  be  detailed  here,  further  than  to  say  that 
the  throat  and  entire  trunk  should  be  kept 
wholly  unrestricted  and  mobile,  ready  for 
automatic  or  well-controlled  service.  The 
whole  body  from  nose  to  lower  abdomen  is 
needed  to  command  the  best  breathing,  and 
must  be  given  strong  free  play  at  all  points 
in  order  to  be  fully  serviceable.  This  point 
is  so  important  that  one  of  the  first  and  last 
words  of  physical  culture  to-day  must  be, 
Breathe  well.  This  accompanies  the  other 
two  injunctions,  Poise  well,  and  Move  worth- 

iiy- 

Poise  should  never  be  mistaken  as  synon- 
ymous with  pose  or  immobility.  It  is  simply 
balance,  the  most  advantageous  natural  ad- 
justment, to  be  infinitely  modified  and  util- 
ized whether  we  are  in  motion  or  at  rest.  It 
is  the  normal  state  of  all  being.  For  con- 
venience we  may  distinguish  three  different 


2rtie  M^IHtta  of  petf^onatlitfi 

kinds  of  poise:  static  poise,  as  in  a  tripod; 
dynamic  poise,  as  in  the  position  of  the  Fly- 
ing Mercury  or  a  runner  at  the  start;  and 
kinetic  poise,  as  of  a  bird  in  the  air.  The 
difference  between  them  is,  of  course,  only  a 
question  of  adaptation,  —  transitional  and 
not  fundamental;  and  it  will  be  seen  that 
one  melts  into  the  other  insensibly  at  need. 
But  the  discrimination  helps  us  to  realize  that 
under  no  condition  is  perfect  physical  poise 
unavailable  nor  unimportant,  nor  to  be  dis- 
regarded without  serious  disadvantage. 

That  there  is  only  one  way  to  stand  is  of 
course  not  true.  Poise  must  suit  its  condi- 
tions. The  identical  poise  that  befits  a  piano- 
mover  will  not  serve  the  dancer.  The  golfer 
and  the  Japanese  wrestler  must  stand  differ- 
ently. For  all  that,  there  is  a  normal  poise 
for  the  standing  human  figure,  which  gives 
the  maximum  stability,  combined  with  a 
maximum  latitude  for  swaying  without  loss 
of  balance,  and  from  which  transitions  may 
most  easily  be  made  to  meet  whatever  de- 

90 


©tie  WLinatTi  T(ctotff 

mands  may  arise.  This  one  way  of  standing 
is  generally  more  economically  serviceable 
than  others  and  therefore  more  beautiful; 
while  there  are  many  ways  which  are  awk- 
ward and  injurious  and  essentially  unlovely. 
Good  poise  is  a  matter  of  utilizing  the  most 
serviceable  base  of  support  without  sacrific- 
ing supple  ease  and  readiness  for  action. 

The  best  alert  standing  position  is  the  one 
which  affords  the  body  the  surest  and  easiest 
support,  and  at  the  same  time  the  greatest 
freedom  and  facility  for  prompt  effective 
movement  in  any  direction.  The  position 
which  oftenest  and  best  serves  this  double 
purpose  is  one  in  which  the  weight  is  upheld 
and  forecarried  over  the  ball  of  one  foot, 
while  the  other  foot  is  dropped  a  little  back, 
resting  lightly  to  help  balance  and  ready  to 
swing  forward  at  need,  the  knees  being 
slightly  flexed  and  never  thrown  flatly  back. 
The  heel  of  the  forward  foot  carries  almost 
none  of  the  weight,  merely  touching  the 
ground  to  help  the  balance.    The  heel  of  the 

91 


idle  foot  is  clear  of  the  ground  altogether. 
The  balls  of  the  feet  are  not  much  more  than 
the  length  of  a  foot  apart.  The  weight  may 
be  swayed  occasionally  from  the  ball  of  one 
advanced  foot  to  the  ball  of  the  other,  ad- 
vanced in  turn,  or  for  rest  or  greater  static 
strength  it  may  be  held  equally  between  the 
balls  of  the  two  feet,  in  which  case  far  greater 
solidity  of  poise  is  secured.  This  is  the  basis 
of  physical  poise  in  which  the  maximum  sup- 
ple stability  consistent  with  general  alertness 
is  attained.  This  ^'  normal  poise "  will  be 
found  most  economic  and  untiresome,  giving 
amplest  latitude  for  the  body  to  sway  with- 
out toppling,  and  at  the  same  time  permitting 
it  to  get  into  motion  easily  and  without  agi- 
tation. Since  it  is  so  serviceable  an  adjust- 
ment, it  is  as  a  natural  consequence  a  graceful 
one. 

A  distinctive  requisite  of  good  living  poise 
is  that  the  weight  of  the  body  should  be  car- 
ried lightly,  with  elation,  with  spirit,  with 
elasticity.     Our  legs,  in  readiness  for  action, 

92 


are  not  stilts  nor  posts  made  to  shore  us  up 
above  the  earth.  They  are  obedient  flexible 
springs,  powerfully  hinged  at  hip  and  knee 
and  (with  the  most  powerful  spring  of  all) 
at  the  ankle.  This  special  mechanism,  par- 
ticularly the  great  contractile  spring  in  the 
calf  of  the  leg,  which  plies  the  ankle  hinge, 
is  intended  to  cushion  the  impacts  of  the  body 
and  let  it  ride  springily  and  comfortably 
hither  and  thither.  To  get  this  advantage 
from  it,  we  must  use  the  mechanism  properly, 
bringing  our  muscles  into  play  and  keeping 
them  voluntarily  under  control,  in  sitting 
and  standing  as  well  as  in  walking.  When- 
ever the  body  is  upright,  its  muscles  must  be 
on  active  duty,  supporting  or  moving  it. 
Muscles  need  not  be  tense  in  order  to  be  in 
control,  but  they  must  be  alive  and  ready  for 
service.  They  must  keep  the  body  balanced 
and  prepared  for  motion.  In  standing,  this 
can  only  be  done  when  control  of  the  weight 
is  shared  by  the  muscles  of  the  foot  as  well 
as  by  those  of  the  leg  and  trunk.    When  the 

93 


weight  is  thrust  down  through  the  rigid  bones 
of  the  leg  upon  the  heel,  in  a  lazy  attempt 
to  shirk  muscular  exertion,  there  can  be  no 
suppleness  of  poise,  no  softness  of  tread,  no 
elegance  of  carriage,  no  ease  nor  magnetism 
of  motion. 

It  is  true  that  many  persons  have  not 
strength  enough  in  the  foot  and  ankle  to  stand 
and  walk  normally  without  undue  fatigue; 
but  this  weakness  is  itself  the  result  of  long 
habits  of  imperfect  carriage  and  inferior  mo- 
tion. Inefficiency  is  the  inevitable  result  of 
misuse  or  disuse.  If  we  were  taught  cor- 
rectly in  childhood,  if  we  never  used  artificial 
heels,  but  gave  our  ankles  and  toes  the  train- 
ing of  natural  free  exercise,  and  transmitted 
the  results  to  our  children,  we  should  soon 
all  have  the  strength  of  leg  and  foot  that  we 
were  designed  to  have.  We  should  all  enjoy 
a  distinct  gain  in  general  vigour,  and  a  cov- 
eted access  of  usefulness  and  beauty. 

In  contrast  with  beautiful  normal  poise  of 
the  human  figure,  many  bad  poses  are  preva- 

94 


lent,  in  which  the  body  is  not  in  poise  at  all. 
Modern  sculpture  as  well  as  the  modern 
drawing-room  is  full  of  them.  Particularly 
unfortunate  is  the  posture,  very  common  in 
society,  on  the  stage,  in  dancing,  and  even 
in  plastic  art,  wherein  the  weight  is  rested 
entirely  on  the  heel  or  flat  of  one  foot,  with 
the  supporting  knee  sprung  back  and  the  idle 
leg  thrust  forward.  The  body  is  almost  in 
unstable  equilibrium.  A  touch  would  tip  it 
backward.  At  the  same  time  it  is  quite  un- 
prepared for  action.  Before  locomotion  can 
take  place  in  any  direction,  the  protruded  leg 
must  be  drawn  in,  stable  equilibrium  re- 
established, and  muscular  control  regained. 
It  is  not  only  a  most  uneconomic  position, 
but  an  unattractive  and  ill-meaning  one  as 
well. 

Man  is  neither  quadrupedal  nor  winged; 
he  is  aspiring  though  not  wholly  detachable 
from  the  good  solid  ground.  He  is  buoyed 
and  swayed  by  emotions  impalpable  as  the 
wind,  and  yet  he  is  inescapably  related  to  the 

95 


sure  foundations  of  material  needs.  He 
stands  on  the  earth,  this  figure  of  glowing 
clay,  inspired  with  the  uplifting  breath  of 
the  infinite.  At  his  best  he  is  well  poised 
between  two  realms.  We  feel  this  harmony 
of  adjustment  in  every  gracious  and  worthy 
presence  wherein  the  perfection  of  poise  is 
achieved.  It  is  one  of  the  supreme  triumphs 
of  art.  Only  think  how  gloriously  the 
Winged  Victory  takes  the  eye!  How  easily 
she  is  victorious!  Her  splendid  breast  is  up- 
borne by  lofty  inspiration  which  carries  her 
forward  with  fluttering  robes,  light-footed, 
unwavering,  rejoicing  almost  with  the  free- 
dom of  the  winged  creatures  of  the  air,  an 
incomparable  apparition  of  triumphant  glad- 
ness. Of  all  the  shapes  of  clay  fashioned  by 
man,  her  poise  is  the  noblest  and  most  inspir- 
ing. She  lifts  our  drooping  spirits  to  new 
endeavour,  to  larger  hope,  to  heights  of  in- 
credible daring.  And  the  Flying  Mercury, 
how  good  is  his  potent  poise!  The  magic  of 
those   winged   sandals    touches   the   spirit   of 

96 


^fit  WLimtn  TittOVS 

every  beholder,  and  we  are  carried  away  like 
children  under  the  spell  of  the  fabulous  old 
legend  of  the  messenger  god,  master  of  speed, 
conqueror  of  space  and  time,  the  prototype 
of  modern  ambition.  As  the  divinity  who 
presided  over  commerce,  too,  he  would  have 
an  especial  interest  for  our  day;  but  while  we 
emulate  his  swiftness  and  shrewdness,  perhaps 
only  too  well,  let  us  remember  his  delicacy 
of  bearing  and  his  exquisite  poise,  as  he  hangs 
with  balanced  feet  light  as  a  swallow  on  a 
slant  of  wind. 

In  daily  life,  too,  how  good  it  is  to  see  fine 
poise,  and  alas,  how  rare!  How  it  catches 
every  eye  in  the  street,  in  the  drawing-room, 
upon  the  stage!  It  is  the  basis  of  fine  per- 
sonal influence,  the  foundation  of  enduring 
beauty,  the  centre  from  which  powerful  im- 
pressiveness  must  radiate.  A  large  part  of 
that  strange  personal  potency  which  we  call 
magnetism  is  the  direct  and  inevitable  result 
of  fine  poise,  —  the  victory  of  the  "  happy 
chest." 

97 


While  personal  magnetism  is  primarily  a 
spiritual  power  and  has  its  source  in  the  soul, 
it  yet  must  find  its  avenues  of  expression 
through  the  body.  And  it  is  the  breast  that 
is  peculiarly  the  abode  of  the  spirit.  It  is  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  body,  between  the  dia- 
phragm and  the  head,  that  the  two  great 
ceaseless  life-sustaining  functions  are  carried 
on,  —  the  come  and  go  of  the  vital  breath, 
and  the  frail  but  enduring  rhythm  of  the 
heart.  It  is  in  the  breast  that  the  evidences 
of  emotion  and  passion  are  first  made  mani- 
fest, —  in  the  quickened  heart-beat  and  per- 
turbed breathing,  —  whether  we  be  moved 
by  love  or  sudden  indignation,  by  terror  or 
remorse. 

This  region  of  the  breast  with  its  acces- 
sories, the  arms,  in  distinction  from  the  head, 
which  is  the  seat  of  the  brain  and  mind,  and 
in  distinction  from  the  lower  body  where  the 
animal  operations  of  nutrition,  reproduction, 
and  locomotion  are  carried  on,  is  eminently 


98 


the  emotional  realm,  and  was  called  by  Del- 
sarte,  "  The  zone  of  honour." 

'^  A  man  of  heart,"  we  say,  meaning  one  of 
generous  and  kindly  spirit.  The  breast  is 
almost  a  synonym  for  the  dwelling-place  of 
love  and  hate,  of  hope  and  fear  and  courage. 
It  is  on  our  mother's  breast  that  we  first  learn 
tenderness  and  the  welling  power  of  the  feel- 
ings. It  is  to  our  breast  that  we  gather  all 
that  is  most  cherished  in  life.  It  is  to  the 
breast  of  our  benignant  mother  earth,  as  we 
call  her,  that  we  ourselves  are  gathered  at 
last.  Hand  may  touch  hand  in  acknowledg- 
ing acquaintanceship;  the  arm  may  circle  the 
shoulder  in  friendship;  but  in  deepest  love 
the  breast  receives  the  cherished  head  of  the 
beloved. 

It  is  this  fact,  —  that  the  breast  is  the  centre 
of  our  spiritual  and  expressive  nature,  —  that 
makes  good  carriage  of  the  chest  so  impress- 
ive and  so  important.  Though  you  meet  me 
eye  to  eye,  and  offer  me  specious  conversa- 


9g 


tion,  —  promises  or  threats,  —  if  your  chest  is 
sunken,  I  feel  there  is  a  lack  of  heart  in  your 
assurances.  But  if  your  chest  is  bravely  fore- 
carried  and  upborne,  I  can  have  no  doubt  of 
the  conviction  and  determination  and  well- 
intentioned  sincerity  behind  it.  If  a  nurse 
enters  a  sick-room,  walking  on  her  heels,  with 
head  and  abdomen  protruded,  while  her  chest 
is  a  mere  hollow  between  her  shoulders,  who 
can  imagine  that  she  could  ever  inspire  the 
least  hope  or  cheer  in  any  patient?  I  have 
seen  a  very  capable  actress,  in  the  role  of 
Melisande,  attempt  to  enlist  the  interest  of 
her  audience  in  the  spiritual  plight  of  that 
character,  and  fail  utterly  to  win  sympathy, 
simply  because  she  never  once  lifted  her  chest 
through  the  whole  performance.  For  the 
sunken  chest  means  more  than  physical  weak- 
ness; it  means  moral  dejection,  discourage- 
ment, cowardice,  and  defeat,  as  the  lifted 
chest  means  not  only  strength,  but  elation, 
courage,  confidence,  kindliness,  and  hope. 
The  sunken  chest,  w^hich  is  the  indication 

lOO 


©tie  ZiZSingetr  Tictotff 

of  the  dispirited  weakling,  may  evoke  pity; 
it  can  hardly  elicit  interest  or  sympathy.  We 
sympathize  willingly  and  readily  with  the 
noble  in  misfortune,  but  for  the  ignoble  there 
must  always  be  a  reserve  in  our  commisera- 
tion. Whoever  would  not  appear  ignoble 
and  risk  actually  becoming  so,  must  ever  pre- 
sent a  brave,  happy  breast  to  the  world. 
Since  we  are  spiritual  beings,  it  is  respectful 
and  generous  that  we  should  meet  spirit  to 
spirit,  that  we  should  show  our  best  selves  to 
one  another. 

If  I  meet  a  stranger,  I  am  glad  to  have 
him  approach  me  with  so  gracious  and  dig- 
nified a  bearing  that  I  must  instinctively  rise 
to  receive  him.  If  he  struts  toward  me 
throwing  forward  his  stomach  and  feet  first, 
I  am  naturally  not  attracted  to  him.  I  wish 
to  meet  the  man,  not  his  legs  and  digestion; 
nor  should  I  be  more  pleasantly  prepossessed 
if  he  came  toward  me  with  the  shiftless  walk 
and  protruded  head  of  the  absorbed  and  over- 
mentalized  person.     In  either  case  I  perceive 

lOI 


2rj|e  i^alteino  of  jpersonalft^ 

he  is  more  concerned  with  himself  than  with 
others,  and  is  not  happily  infused  with  the 
great  universal  breath  of  the  spirit,  which  is 
common  to  all  men,  and  which  alone  vitalizes 
every  interest  and  sustains  and  ennobles  life. 

The  importance  of  a  good  carriage,  there- 
fore, is  not  only  a  matter  of  health  and  econ- 
omy and  grace  in  motion;  it  is  quite  as  much 
a  matter  of  personal  influence  and  obligation. 
A  well-poised  body,  while  expressing  a  well- 
poised  character,  reacts  in  turn  on  that  char- 
acter to  help  and  enrich  the  whole  personal- 
ity. To  bear  oneself  with  grace  and  kindly 
dignity  is  to  foster  and  breed  graciousness 
and  self-respect,  as  well  as  to  disseminate 
them. 

"  The  soul  is  at  ease  in  the  body  only  when 
it  is  using  it  as  a  means  of  expression  or  ac- 
tion." So  when  art  would  embody  in  beauty 
the  idea  of  triumph  without  weariness,  of 
glad  elation  untouched  by  envious  defeat,  of 
high  intelligence  overcoming  the  barbarous 
and  base,  —  when  it  would  add  to  the  fairest 

102 


2ri|e  Wiinatra  Tfctots 

human  loveliness  some  hint  of  superhuman 
power  and  dominion  over  a  region  more  vast 
than  earth,  —  it  created  the  Victory  of  the 
Wings,  to  be  a  lasting  signal  before  our  won- 
dering eyes,  and  an  incentive  to  that  dignity 
of  bearing  which  we  behold  only  in  the  rarest 
personalities. 


103 


5ri)e  Sillier  Siting 


0x,  ^erjsDnal  '^ibxmt^ 

It  is  evident  that  in  the  making  of  person- 
ality the  acquirement  of  poise  is  not  enough. 
The  advice  of  the  Latin  poet,  that  we  should 
preserve  an  equal  mind  in  the  midst  of  dif- 
ficulties, is  excellent;  but  equanimity,  even 
an  ideal  equilibrium  of  all  our  powers,  is 
hardly  a  sufficient  goal  for  human  endeavour. 
We  are  not  aspirants  of  a  passive  and  crystal- 
line perfection,  but  must  find  our  satisfactions 
in  activity,  in  achievement,  in  human  inter- 
course and  relationships.  We  take  more 
pleasure  in  modifying  life,  in  mingling  with 
the  tumultuous  business  of  the  world,  in  leav- 

104 


ing  some  traces  of  our  impress  upon  the 
events  of  the  great  human  drama,  than  in  any 
isolation  of  self,  however  learned  or  holy. 
The  most  blameless  character  must  be  doing, 
if  it  would  be  glad.  This  is  one  of  the  un- 
questionable laws. 

To  be  poised  is  not  to  be  immobile  always, 
for  there  is  poise  of  motion  as  well  as  of  rest. 
For  a  mortal  to  cease  from  growth,  from  ac- 
tion, from  exertion,  is  to  cease  from  enjoy- 
ment and  to  begin  to  decline  and  perish. 
Poise  is  only  the  springboard  of  performance, 
the  pou  sto  of  the  Greek  mathematician,  from 
which  we  may  move  the  world.  It  is  a  pre- 
requisite of  personal  happiness  and  power, 
the  very  acme  of  education,  and  yet  not  a  suf- 
ficient end  in  itself,  —  a  most  desirable  con- 
dition of  being,  but  by  no  means  the  ultimate 
concern  of  creation.  The  supreme  artistry 
of  the  cosmos  in  which  we  share,  calls  for 
initiative  and  toil  as  well  as  for  the  duty  of 
self-perfection  and  repose.  We  may  well  di- 
rect all  the  efforts  for  culture  to  the  attain- 

105 


ment  of  poise,  but  the  object  of  culture  after 
all  is  only  preparatory,  —  to  put  our  energies 
in  the  happiest  condition  for  accomplishing 
ideal  ambitions  and  practical  purposes  in  the 
world.  To  be  well  poised  is  indeed  a  first 
necessity,  but  to  rest  content  with  poise  is  to 
be  already  touched  with  death. 

The  personality  without  poise  is  baffled, 
chaotic,  blundering,  and  unhappy  in  its  own 
bewildered  inefficiency,  no  matter  how  furi- 
ously it  may  strive.  But  the  personality  in 
which  poise  has  been  secured  is  already  on 
the  threshold  of  felicity,  and  may  pass  at  one 
step  into  the  region  of  happy  experience. 
Whatever  mischance  may  come  to  it,  what- 
ever natural  sorrow  may  visit  it  with  grief, 
no  irrevocable  disaster  can  befall  such  a  one. 
Yet  with  all  the  universe  in  flux,  man  cannot 
stand  still;  and  the  individual  being  must 
maintain  its  poise  from  moment  to  moment, 
from  deed  to  deed,  balancing  and  rebalan- 
cing for  self-preservation  amidst  the  oppos- 
ing tides  of  force. 

io6 


JTi&e  Sdbet  Sttfnfl 

But  every  personality  is  itself  endowed 
with  force,  with  power,  with  preference  and 
intelligence.  It  cannot  endure  to  be  merely 
passive,  but  must  energize  in  order  to  be 
happy.  As  poise  is  a  normal  state  of  being, 
of  the  personality,  and  a  natural  ideal  for  it, 
no  less  so  is  achievement.  Achievement  at 
touch  of  need  springs  from  poise  as  inevitably 
as  circling  ripples  spring  from  the  placid 
surface  when  a  pebble  is  cast  into  a  still  pool. 
Sometimes  a  single  little  seed  of  suggestion 
dropped  into  the  brooding  mind  is  enough  to 
start  a  lifelong  train  of  consequent  activities. 
If  the  personality  be  unpoised  and  ruffled, 
then  the  circles  of  widening  influence  are 
confused  and  broken  and  dissipated. 

It  is  no  vague  figure  of  poetic  fancy  to 
speak  of  personal  rhythm,  or  to  say  that  every 
personality,  like  every  violin,  is  possessed  of 
a  marked  vibratory  character  peculiar  to  it- 
self, which  is  indeed  the  index  of  its  excel- 
lence, the  measure  of  its  power,  and  the 
means  of  carrying  its  communications  across 

107 . 


the  gulfs  of  space.  Just  as  violins  differ  in 
make  and  timbre,  personalities  differ  in  poise 
and  vibrancy.  Timbre  is  the  peculiar  qual- 
ity revealed  in  execution,  unique  in  every  in- 
stance. Personal  vibrancy  is  the  peculiar 
inseparable  quality  of  the  individual,  w^hich 
reveals  itself  not  only  in  characteristic  mo- 
tion and  speech,  but  also  in  that  mysterious 
form  which  almost  defies  analysis,  and  yet 
accomplishes  with  infinite  subtlety  the  ex- 
pressive and  impressive  purposes  of  the  per- 
sonality as  effectively  as  the  most  unmistaka- 
ble gesture  or  tone.  If  the  wonderful  timbre 
of  an  old  Cremona  cannot  be  duplicated  nor 
explained,  how  can  we  hope  to  define  this 
essential  vibrancy  inherent  in  the  personali- 
ties of  men?  The  one  depends,  we  say,  upon 
the  fibre  of  the  wood,  its  cunning  form  and 
age;  the  other  lurks  in  the  recesses  of  being, 
modified  plainly  by  build,  temperament,  and 
mentality,  by  inheritance  and  experience; 
and  both  possess  awesome  powers  beneficent 
or  malign.     But  does  that  dispel  the  marvel 

io8 


of  their  presence  or  make  clear  the  secret  of 
their  lure? 

There  is  no  manifestation  of  life  that  is  not 
vibrant.  Even  the  inorganic  world  vibrates 
through  all  its  substance,  the  unseen  particle 
and  the  unseen  planet  responding  alike  to  the 
throb  of  cosmic  vibration,  pulsating  in  the 
crucible  under  the  stir  of  chemic  change  or 
pendulous  in  space  under  the  sway  of  gravi- 
tation. The  great  active  primal  forces  of  the 
universe,  heat,  light  and  electricity,  are,  so 
far  as  physicists  can  tell,  all  modes  of  motion 
or  vibrancy,  and  are  convertible  because  they 
are  fundamentally  the  sam.e.  They  differ 
only  in  the  time  or  force  or  shape  of  their 
vibration,  and  any  one  of  them  may  be 
changed  iato  any  other  as  easily  as  we  glide 
from  one  tune  to  the  next  in  the  realm  of 
music. 

We  who  are  the  complex  products  of  this 
natural  world  must  be  compounded  only  of 
the  materials  and  forces  found  within  it. 
The  vibrancy  of  light  enables  us  to  see,  the 

109 


2riir  JWaftfno  of  petfiionalftff 

vibrancy  of  sound  enables  us  to  hear;  out 
taste,  our  smell,  our  touch,  are  only  faculties 
for  recording  vibrations  in  the  universe 
around  us.  The  most  primordial  functions 
of  the  living  organism,  breathing  and  circula- 
tion of  the  blood,  are  rhythmical.  Even  our 
hunger  and  thirst  are  timed  to  a  slow  peri- 
odicity, and  swing  from  lulled  inactive  ease 
to  restless  demand  with  a  certain  regularity. 
At  times  the  flood  of  waking  energy  sweeps 
through  us  like  a  compelling  tide,  and  after 
its  due  period  of  joyous  accomplishment  ebbs 
away  again,  leaving  us  to  fatigue,  languor, 
and  sleep.  The  rhythm  of  the  breath  and  the 
beating  of  the  pulse  are  only  the  more  obvi- 
ous and  gross  forms  of  personal  vibration,  but 
they  parallel  another  and  more  impalpable 
sort  of  vibration  which  exists  not  only  in  the 
person  but  in  the  personality.  This  latter  sort 
of  vibrancy,  a  personal  vibration  which  is 
characteristic  of  the  individual,  is  indeed 
largely  dependent  upon  physical  peculiari- 
ties, and  is  modified  by  them;    its  origin,  its 

no 


intensity,  its  quality,  are  always  partly  phys- 
ical; yet  it  is  equally  a  psychic  power  and  a 
revelation  of  the  inward  personality.  It  is 
not  possessed  equally  by  all  people,  nor  do 
those  who  are  endowed  with  it  possess  it 
equally  at  all  times.  In  many  it  is  so  slight 
as  to  seem  to  be  almost  wholly  wanting,  so 
that  we  declare  at  once,  they  have  no  mag- 
netism. In  others  it  is  so  strong  and  forceful 
that  the  very  air  seems  charged  with  their 
presence,  and  we  are  aware  of  an  almost  pal- 
pable influence  radiating  from  them  wher- 
ever they  may  be.  It  is  as  variable  as  mood, 
and  differs  in  different  men  and  women  as 
much  as  temper  or  disposition. 

Vibrancy  is  never  wholly  lacking  in  the 
human  being,  in  some  degree  or  other,  but  it 
is  often  so  faint  and  vague  as  to  be  almost 
indistinguishable  and  inoperative.  Sickness 
impairs  it,  confusion  and  doubtfulness  of 
mind  render  it  ineffectual,  and  a  wilful  des- 
pondency may  destroy  it  at  its  source.  At  its 
best,  however,  it  is  a  great  power;    and  like 

III 


any  other  supreme  characteristic  of  human 
clay  may  be  cultivated  with  intelligent  care 
or  ignored  and  thwarted  and  ruthlessly  des- 
troyed. It  behooves  those  who  have  it  abun- 
dantly to  guard  it  scrupulously  as  one  of  the 
most  precious  of  gifts  and  to  use  it  wisely  for 
beneficent  ends;  while  those  who  have  it  only 
to  a  small  degree  could  hardly  do  better  than 
attempt  to  increase  it  by  educating  so  potent 
an  ability. 

To  call  it  personal  magnetism  does  not  ex- 
plain this  subtle  power  at  all,  nor  elucidate  its 
obscure  character,  but  it  proves  how  familiar 
we  are  with  it  in  every-day  life.  Its  actual 
existence  is  very  real  and  pervasive,  only  we 
need  to  give  it  rational  recognition  and  treat- 
ment, as  something  quite  as  worthy  of  respect 
and  culture  as  any  of  the  more  salient  traits 
of  personality.  It  is  more  powerful  than 
beauty,  more  effective  than  intelligence."^ 
Serving  each  human  being,  like  a  prompt 
and  eager  messenger,  just  as  electricity  serves 
us  in  a  mechanical  way,  it  aids  inestimably 

112 


2Ct|e  Sdbet  Sttinfl 

in  all  the  strenuous  forceful  dealings  of  men 
and  all  the  glad  or  grievous  concerns  of 
women,  —  that  dramatic  interplay  of  charac- 
ter which  goes  to  make  up  the  sum  of  human 
happiness  or  woe.  Obscure  and  little  re- 
garded, often  inert  or  degraded,  but  never 
wholly  dead,  it  resides  at  the  very  core  of  in- 
dividuality, like  the  hidden  force  which 
marks  the  identity  of  the  atom  and  appears 
to  be  almost  synonymous  with  life  itself. 

To  thrill  with  rapture  or  quiver  with  grief 
is  no  mere  metaphor;  the  whole  person  re- 
sponds like  a  vibrant  cord  to  the  touch  of 
experience;  and  spirit  and  sense  are  inex- 
tricably bound  together,  while  life  lasts,  in 
one  sentient  organism  through  which  its  own 
thoughts,  emotions,  and  sensations  surge  and 
throb,  and  to  which  its  created  fellows  call 
and  are  apprehended  in  answering  rhythms. 
And  yet  personal  vibrancy  or  personal  mag- 
netism, in  the  sense  in  which  we  are  using 
the  term,  is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  species 
of  hypnotism,  since  hypnotism  is  an  abnormal 

113 


phenomenon  produced  under  extreme  condi- 
tions, whereas  personal  magnetism  is  wholly 
normal,  healthy,  and  a  quality  of  every-day 
intercourse. 

It  may  be  that  hypnotism  is  an  exaggerated 
effect  of  personal  vibrancy  deliberately  em- 
phasized and  enforced;  but  the  manifesta- 
tion which  we  are  here  calling  vibrancy  or 
magnetism,  and  which  plays  so  important 
though  inconspicuous  a  part  in  every  mortal 
career,  is  by  no  means  so  extravagant  or  ex- 
ceptional a  thing.  It  proceeds  to  no  such 
extraordinary  lengths  as  mesmerism,  and  yet 
its  ends  are  similar,  for  its  function  in  human 
economy  is  the  serviceable  communication  of 
personal  influence.  Its  invisible  but  cogent 
dictates  carry  inducement  or  authority  w^her- 
ever  they  go,  eliciting  some  response  wher- 
ever they  pass,  either  of  acquiescence  or  dis- 
sent. One  can  seldom  remain  wholly  indif- 
ferent to  its  sway  when  once  it  is  recognized, 
but  must  yield  it  some  kind  of  acknowledg- 
ment,   whether    in    compliance    or    aversion. 

114 


2Ci)t  SiHiet  String 

Personal  vibrancy  is  the  automatic  carrying 
power  of  the  individual  will;  it  sounds  the 
personal  note  of  the  individual,  and  like  the 
tones  of  sound  must  mingle  in  harmony  or 
discord  with  every  vibration  it  meets. 

In  all  the  commonplace  occurrences  of 
every-day  affairs,  as  in  the  crucial  hours  of 
life,  personal  magnetism  is  operative  and  pow- 
erful, —  wherever  two  men  meet  in  the  street, 
wherever  business  is  transacted  or  speech  ex- 
changed, wherever  eyebeams  meet  and  looks 
of  understanding  pass,  wherever  a  gesture  is 
recognized  or  an  inflexion  observed,  in  liking, 
in  antipathy,  and  even  in  indifference.  It 
is  the  power  of  the  orator,  the  sorcery  of  the 
lover,  the  secret  of  the  leader  of  forlorn 
hopes,  the  resource  of  the  anxious  hostess,  the 
help  of  the  physician,  the  reliance  of  the  ad- 
vocate, and  the  preacher's  most  telling  ap- 
peal. Personal  vibrancy  fires  assemblies  with 
enthusiasm  and  touches  mobs  with  the  mad- 
ness of  fury  or  panic  fear.  Wherever  a  mor- 
tal soul  perceive  its  fellow,  the  transmitting 

115 


E'^t  JWafefufl  of  J^nfiionaUt» 

power  of  personality  is  felt  and  exerted  as  a 
vibrant  vital  force. 

In  the  early  days  of  mesmerism,  the  exist- 
ence of  a  certain  mysterious  magnetic  fluid 
was  postulated  to  account  for  the  transmission 
of  an  apparently  inexplicable  personal  influ- 
ence. That  theory  of  course  has  long  since 
been  abandoned.  But  in  thinking  of  vi- 
brancy as  a  personal  quality,  we  need  con- 
ceive of  it  in  no  such  material  or  mysterious 
fashion.  Only  in  its  physical  manifestation 
does  personal  vibration  become  something 
measurable  to  the  senses.  But  there,  indeed, 
whether  we  call  it  personal  magnetism  or  ani- 
mal sympathy,  it  reveals  itself  in  no  dubious 
guise,  with  no  uncertain  power,  as  a  deter- 
miner of  choice,  an  indissuadable  advocate 
of  preference,  in  comradeship,  in  friendship 
and  in  love.  To  such  lowly  but  honourable 
origin  in  the  great  kinship  of  nature  may  our 
mental  and  spiritual  affinities  in  part  be 
traced.  Responding  with  a  glad  elation  to 
an  accent  of  sympathy,  a  glance  of  compre- 

ii6 


hension,  a  touch  of  kindred  vibrancy,  and 
ignoring  quite  as  arbitrarily  other  stimuli 
which  might  seem  to  sober  judgment  no  less 
compelling  and  delightful,  the  sensitive  mor- 
tal takes  his  way  through  the  confusion  of 
life,  choosing  his  associates,  his  companions, 
his  bosom-friends,  at  the  bidding  of  an  in- 
stinct seemingly  no  more  rational  than  vagu- 
est whim.  "  Yet  choice  is  not  whimsical.  We 
may  trust  the  predilections  of  instinct  and  in- 
tuition if  only  they  be  kept  fine  and  unde- 
based.  We  may  make  sure  that  a  true  and 
kindly  relation  is  attainable  first  or  last  in  the 
rarer  spheres  of  spirit  and  intelligence  be- 
tween any  two  beings  whose  senses  have  first 
felt  a  glad  response  in  the  recognition  of  sym- 
pathetic vibration,  —  that  silver  string  which 
binds  together  the  hearts  and  heads  and  hands 
of  friends  and  lovers.  Woven  of  tactile  sense, 
of  iridescent  light,  of  rhythmic  sound,  this 
fine  thread  on  which  the  living  beads  of  per- 
sonality are  strung  is  a  strand  of  that  mighty 
cord  which  holds  the  glowing  stars  to  their 

117 


2rfie  i!«aftfnfl  of  ^tvnonnlits 

centres  as  they  circle  through  their  purple 
rounds. 

Personal  vibrancy  implies  and  requires 
tension.  And  vibrant  tension  implies  chiefly 
three  things,  power,  sensibility  and  freedom 
of  vibration,  —  the  power  which  resides  in 
energy  and  strength,  the  sensibility  or  deli- 
cacy which  comes  of  experience,  and  the  free- 
dom which  is  only  born  of  courage. 

Being  inseparable  from  the  physical  as  it 
is,  personal  magnetism  must  find  its  chief 
means  of  growth  and  recuperation  and  re- 
enforcement  in  a  salutary  bodily  culture  and 
code.  Unless  the  physique  be  sound,  efficient, 
and  in  its  best  condition,  personal  vibrancy 
must  be  impaired.  The  singing  wire  from 
which  glad  music  is  to  issue  must  be  taut,  or 
it  will  not  vibrate  at  all,  and  to  hold  it  taut 
the  attachments  at  either  end  must  be  strong 
and  fixed.  There  can  be  no  harmony,  there 
cannot  even  be  a  responsive  sound  from  a 
slackened  string.  To  keep  the  cord  of  per- 
sonal relation  tuneful,  therefore,  its  points  of 

ii8 


2CJ|t  SHijet  Sttfnfl 

fixture  must  be  firm.  To  look  for  adequate 
responsiveness  and  potent  magnetism  from  a 
weak  or  sickly  body  is  like  expecting  reso- 
nance from  punk,  or  resilience  from  a  broken 
spring.  That  magic  power,  so  subtle  yet  so 
inescapable,  which  is  felt  to  surround  every 
forceful  personality  and  lay  a  spell  on  all 
who  come  within  its  range,  can  only  have  its 
origin  in  the  happy  spontaneity  of  a  poised 
and  wholesome  body.  Vigour  is  a  prime 
requisite  of  personal  vibrancy. 

It  is  good  to  feel  that  we  are  maintaining 
our  vigour  not  merely  for  itself  alone,  —  not 
only  for  the  sensuous  satisfaction  of  perfect 
health,  great  as  that  benefit  is.  There  is  a 
further  satisfaction  in  maintaining  physical 
energy  at  its  finest  perfection,  when  we  have 
consciously  in  mind  its  ever  present  value  in 
strengthening  mental  vigour  and  spiritual 
force,  — •  in  enhancing  personality  and  per- 
sonal relations,  —  when  we  recall  that  health 
is  not  only  the  basis  of  endurance  but  of  influ- 
ence and  success.     To  consider  physical  vig- 

119 


our  in  this  light  adds  a  noble  and  fascinating 
interest  to  life,  and  stimulates  the  wisest  care 
of  our  animal  selves,  the  magical  bodies 
which  we  too  often  misuse  and  degrade,  and 
which  a  false  and  iniquitous  asceticism  has 
even  led  men  to  despise. 

To  keep  the  bodily  instrument  in  healthy- 
tone  and  capably  vibrant,  we  must  keep  it 
supplied  first  of  all  with  food  and  air  and 
freedom.  These  are  the  great  basic  necessi- 
ties of  life,  from  which  intelligence  and  joy 
and  power  are  to  be  made.  The  engine  must 
be  kept  going  at  its  best,  no  matter  what  un- 
happiness  or  misfortune  may  threaten.  A 
plentiful  supply  of  the  best  food  we  can  ob- 
tain, and  an  abundant  supply  of  pure  cold 
air,  these  are  the  requisites  never  to  be  omit- 
ted. An  unstinted  use  of  cold  water  and 
quiet  sleep  materially  help  us  all  to  make  the 
most  of  our  opportunity  for  success  and  glad- 
ness. As  much  time  as  possible  in  the  great 
fresh  out-of-doors,  where  our  natures  are  at 
home,  is  medicine  for  many  ills  and  brings 

1 20 


unguessed  reinforcements  of  vitality  to  the 
thwarted  spirit.  Perplexities  will  often  van- 
ish like  a  pallid  sickness  in  open  sunshine. 
And,  be  it  soberly  said,  tired  nerves  may  be 
wonderfully  refreshed  by  resting  or  sleeping 
on  the  naked  ground,  where  all  their  jangling 
rhythms  may  be  reattuned  and  their  discord- 
ant pain  absorbed  by  the  great  unseen  mag- 
netic currents  of  the  earth.  Our  strength  is 
sapped,  the  very  sources  of  our  vitality  are 
cut  off  by  floors  and  pavements,  just  as  we  can 
be  insulated  from  electricity  by  a  rubber  shoe. 
We  grow  artificial  and  distraught  in  exile 
from  our  native  resting-place.  Something 
of  the  strong,  instinctive,  and  normal  life  of 
the  creatures  of  the  field  is  needed  in  the 
finest  civilization,  —  their  natural  honesty, 
their  unperverted  instinct,  their  lawful  per- 
sistence and  unembarrassed  repose.  We  may 
well  retain,  too,  all  that  we  can  of  the  animal 
habit  of  orderly  motion,  —  that  unconscious 
adherence  to  a  natural  individual  rhythm  in 
all  movements  which  the  wild  things  always 

121 


exhibit  and  which  no  domestication  can  spoil. 
To  this  end  the  cultivation  of  normal  motion 
is  important,  the  most  rhythmical  exercise  is 
best.  And  for  this  reason  all  exercise  is  bene- 
ficial only  when  it  is  adapted  to  the  personal 
rhythm,  as  well  as  to  the  other  physical  and 
personal  needs  of  the  individual. 

Though  personal  magnetism  is  thus  pal- 
pably physical  in  its  basis,  none  the  less  is  it 
appreciably  spiritual  and  rational  in  its  com- 
position and  function,  helping  our  personali- 
ties to  find  their  proper  scope  and  wield  their 
proper  influence  in  life.  While  its  power  is 
rooted  in  strength  and  health,  these  alone  are 
far  from  sufficient  to  secure  and  perfect  it. 
For  no  matter  what  amount  of  mere  animal 
strength  a  man  may  possess,  if  he  have  not 
discriminating  sensibility  and  courageous 
freedom  as  well,  his  personal  value  will  be 
only  rudimentary.  Indeed  if  the  equation  of 
his  personal  make-up  is  lacking  in  any  one  of 
these  necessary  factors,  the  efficiency  of  his 
personal  power  cannot  but  be  impaired.     A 

122 


personality,  like  a  violin  string,  must  have 
free  play  for  its  vibrations  and  accuracy  of 
attunement  along  with  its  strength  and  tenac- 
ity; otherwise  it  can  give  forth  only  a  crip- 
pled result.  The  freedom  of  spirit  we  need 
for  the  maintenance  of  a  finely  strung  per- 
sonal vibrancy  is  a  matter  of  daring,  of  hav- 
ing the  courage  not  only  of  our  convictions 
but  of  our  instincts  and  aspirations,  of  being 
undeterred  by  the  puny  fear  of  consequences 
or  by  the  blind  old  tyranny  of  tradition.  It 
is  not  enough  to  do  our  own  thinking;  we 
must  do  our  own  feeling  and  acting  also. 

That  factor  in  personal  magnetism  which 
we  may  call  sensibility,  delicacy,  or  intelli- 
gence of  appreciation,  controls  the  most  ex- 
quisite quality  of  social  intercourse  and  hu- 
man sympathy,  and  gives  personality  the 
power  of  quick  perception^  comprehension 
and  judgment.  It  saves  personal  force  from 
wasting  itself  on  futile  ends  and  in  ill-advised 
endeavour.  However  freely  and  resonantly 
a  string  may  vibrate,  it  will  not  enhance  any 

123 


harmony  unless  it  be  struck  in  time  and  tune. 
To  be  off  the  key  is  as  fatal  in  personal  rela- 
tions as  in  music.  Much  that  is  vigorous  and 
daring  in  personality  is  undone  for  want  of 
delicacy,  discrimination,  understanding.  It 
is  the  finest  ingredient  of  personal  being,  this 
delicate  and  subtle  wisdom;  and  while,  like 
other  endowments,  it  may  be  a  gift  at  birth, 
it  is  also  product  of  culture  and  experience. 
Children  having  plenty  of  physical  health 
and  often  a  splendid  spiritual  freedom,  can- 
not have  the  commensurate  sensitiveness  of  in- 
sight which  experience  gives.  Their  merci- 
less cruelty,  their  thoughtlessness,  their  lack 
of  understanding  are  the  result  of  ignorance 
and  inexperience. 

But  the  artist  in  life,  who  has  kept  his  body 
with  all  its  forces  unperverted,  who  has  held 
his  courage  high  through  all  vicissitudes  of 
experience,  will  also  have  attained  a  vibrant 
sympathy  with  suffering  and  sorrow  and  the 
desolation  of  defeat.  For  the  capable  worker, 
lighted  by  imagination,  experience  develops 

124 


a  liberal  sympathy^  a  tolerant  and  kindly 
judgment,  and  a  most  sensitive  understanding 
of  the  lights  and  shades  of  life.  Time,  that 
adds  value  to  the  violin,  may  also  be  made 
to  bring  skill  to  the  fingers  of  the  player. 
Else  were  we  for  ever  at  fault,  and  experience 
might  leave  us  where  it  found  us. 

As  a  practical  summary  it  may  be  said  that 
personal  magnetism  may  best  be  fostered  and 
retained  by  utilizing  the  natural  laws  of  per- 
sonal rhythm,  instinctive  preference,  and  true 
adaptation;  by  never  doing  anything  awk- 
wardly nor  in  disordered  haste;  by  never 
violating  a  legitimate  normal  prompting  or 
intuitive  choice,  merely  because  of  the  infat- 
uation of  fashion  or  the  intimidation  of  cus- 
tom; by  never  acting  without  kind  consid- 
eration and  liberal  reason.  So  may  our  vi- 
brancy become  a  legitimate  power  for  better- 
ment as  well  as  a  personal  attainment  and  sajt- 
isfaction. 

Those  who  vibrate  strongly,  freely,  and 
considerately,  —  who  avoid  alike  the  errors 

125 


of  weakness  and  of  violence,  of  wilfulness 
and  of  timidity,  of  credulity  and  of  intoler- 
ance,— ^  and  hold  the  fleeting  gift  of  life  in 
a  capable  balance  of  powers,  are  the  masters 
of  destiny  and  the  benefactors  of  their  fel- 
lows. They  learn  from  practice  that  the  test 
of  success  for  any  personality  is  that  it  shall 
yield  the  delectable  harmony  of  this  triple 
chord,  sounding  the  notes  of  primordial  en- 
ergy, humane  sympathy,  and  ideal  wisdom. 
Experience  teaches  them  that  personal  vi- 
brancy is  the  silver  string  of  life  upon  which 
the  fairy  music  of  happiness  is  made. 


126 


In  walking  or  running  or  dancing,  the 
human  body  is  seen  at  its  best.  Its  static 
beauty  of  form  then  takes  on  another  loveli- 
ness, —  the  charm  of  motion,  the  bewitching 
rhythms  of  grace.  If  we  are  captivated  by 
its  ravishing  lines  and  tints  in  repose,  we  are 
more  deeply  enslaved  when  those  lines  and 
hues  begin  to  move  and  melt  through  yield- 
ing curves  from  poise  to  poise.  We  then  per- 
ceive the  purport  and  power,  the  adaptabil- 
ity, ease  and  success,  of  its  wonderful  mechan- 
ism. If  we  were  in  love  with  the  promise  of 
its  beauty,  we  are  (though  we  may  not  know 
it)  more  completely  in  love  with  its  perfec- 
tion   of    graceful    and    facile    achievement. 

127 


More  than  that,  there  is  a  sorcery  in  timed 
and  modulated  motion,  which  is  inherent  in 
all  rhythms,  and  which  lures  us  to  respond, 
as  surely  as  the  charmer's  pipe  beguiles  the 
serpent  from  his  coils.  The  cultivation  of 
grace  is  too  fine  to  be  achieved  through  arti- 
fice or  affectation,  and  yet  it  may  be  acquired 
by  lawful  means;  and  while  it  is  not  so  much 
coveted  as  beauty  is,  because  it  is  less  realized, 
it  is  no  less  potent  and  delightful,  and  is  more 
readily  attainable.  A  properly  comprehen- 
sive physical  education  will  develop  grace  as 
certainly  as  vigour  and  strength.  Indeed, 
grace  must  be  the  ultimate  test  of  all  culture 
of  the  body. 

With  all  our  attention  to  outdoor  sports, 
our  college  athletics,  our  innumerable  schools 
of  physical  training,  we  cannot  be  said  to  be 
indifferent  to  bodily  well-being,  and  another 
word  on  the  subject  may  even  seem  superflu- 
ous. It  is  not  the  quantity  of  physical  train- 
ing, however,  which  is  open  to  criticism,  so 
much  as  its  quality.     While  the  amount  of 

128 


3Ri&J>tiimj5  of  <Krate 

care  we  bestow  on  the  culture  of  the  body  may 
be  thought  sufficient,  —  in  our  colleges,  at 
least,  —  it  is  certainly  for  the  most  part  lack- 
ing in  the  wisest  guiding  educational  princi- 
ples, and  is  very  rarely  made  to  yield  the  best 
general  results.  The  prime  mistake  seems  to 
be  that  all  except  the  greatest  educators  have 
overlooked  the  possibility  of  the  higher  edu- 
cation of  motion.  They  have  devoted  them- 
selves exclusively  to  developing  muscular  and 
special  strength,  but  that  is  very  far  from 
being  enough.  Strength,  without  the  habit 
of  using  it  with  the  utmost  economy  and  ap- 
propriateness, is  only  of  limited  advantage. 

It  is  true  that  sports  and  athletics  do  culti- 
vate motion,  and  in  the  long  run  do  give  their 
kinds  of  dexterity  and  skill  and  physical  effi- 
ciency. Our  great  natural  bodily  proficiency 
has  been  achieved  through  long  ages  of  trial 
and  practice  in  work  and  play,  and  the  elim- 
ination of  the  inefficient.  But  it  is  not  true 
that  mere  exercise  in  itself  necessarily  affords 
the  most  valuable  education  in  motion  or  in- 

129 


2Cf)e  JHafttnfl  of  ^tvuonulits 

duces  the  best  motional  habits.  The  processes 
of  natural  selection  are  effective  but  ruthless, 
and  attain  their  purpose  with  entire  disregard 
for  the  individual.  The  blind  cosmic  forces 
which  play  through  us  produce  perfection  of 
the  species  in  their  own  good  time  only  by 
sacrificing  with  supreme  unconcern  myriads 
of  the  weak,  mistaken,  and  ineffectual. 

It  is  the  object  of  education  to  better  this 
clumsy  process,  to  discriminate  among  natural 
tendencies,  to  guide  and  assist  evolution,  to 
modify  and  adapt  it  to  the  crying  need  of  each 
particular  being.  One  might  quite  as  well 
expect  to  become  a  good  reader  merely  by 
persistently  reading  aloud  without  instruc- 
tion or  criticism,  as  to  hope  to  acquire  good 
habits  of  motion  by  unaided  practice  alone. 
We  forget  that  bad  habits  of  motion,  bad 
habits  of  walking  or  standing,  may  most  eas- 
ily be  acquired  in  childhood,  and  may 
be  unconsciously  and  tenaciously  retained 
through  any  amount  of  exercise,  unless  they 
are  recognized  by  a  competent  instructor  and 

130 


carefully  eliminated,  just  as  bad  habits  of 
speech  —  unpleasant  tones  and  inefficient 
breathing  —  may  be  contracted  in  childhood 
and  retained  through  life,  unless  duly  cor- 
rected. Unguided  exercise  does  not  neces- 
sarily eradicate  faults  in  the  individual,  but 
the  faults  merely  tend  to  vitiate  the  exercise. 
The  exercise  of  any  faculty  is  of  little  educa- 
tional value,  unless  it  is  wisely  directed  with 
definite  educational  purpose. 

The  average  parent  sees  no  necessity  for 
giving  his  child  any  real  physical  education. 
'^  Because,"  he  says,  "  the  boy  is  not  very 
strong.  I  think  it  better  to  give  him  plenty 
of  outdoor  life.  Let  him  take  his  exercise  as 
Nature  intended."  This  sounds  very  well, 
but  the  difficulty  is  that  Nature,  while  she  is 
always  trying  to  produce  normal  types,  sets 
very  little  store  by  any  separate  life.  A  boy 
may  have  inherited  a  poor  physique  from  his 
father  and  execrable  habits  of  motion  from 
his  mother.  To  turn  him  loose  to  exercise  by 
himself  is  to  allow  all  his  bad  habits  to  be- 

131 


2rt|e  M^'fiitta  of  ^tvHonmts 

come  confirmed,  and  his  maldevelopment  to 
be  established.  Nature  would  let  him  exer- 
cise himself  to  death.  His  weak  inefficient 
body  needs  constant  wise  guidance  and  help; 
without  these,  he  might  almost  as  well  and 
sometimes  much  better  not  exercise  at  all.  A 
playground  without  a  physical  director  is  just 
about  as  useful  as  a  schoolroom  without  a 
teacher.  A  child  can  exercise  his  mind  with- 
out help,  and  does  so  every  minute  he  is 
awake,  but  that  does  not  mean  that  he  can 
give  himself  a  proper  intellectual  education. 
No  more  can  he  learn  good  motion,  physical 
deftness  and  aptitude,  merely  by  exercising 
his  muscles  in  haphazard  exertion. 

The  5^outh  at  college  is  not  much  better  off. 
He  rows  or  runs  or  plays  ball  or  uses  the 
gymnasium  without  any  idea  beyond  excel- 
ling in  his  favourite  sport,  outstripping  his 
fellows  in  speed,  or  overmatching  them  in 
strength.  He  knows  no  other  measure  of 
physical  excellence,  —  no  standard  of  beauty 
or  symmetry  of  development.     His  only  in- 

132 


centive  is  the  natural  but  pernicious  sense  of 
rivalry;  and  this  leads  him  to  specialize  in 
directions  where  he  is  already  most  proficient,  i^ 

and  to  neglect  his  development  in  other  di- 
rections where  he  needs  it  most.  He  thus  • 
exaggerates  his  peculiarities  of  build  and  mo- 
tion, instead  of  correcting  and  supplementing 
them,  and  thus  retards  his  own  harmonious 
physical  education.  All  good  teachers,  of 
course,  deplore  this  tendency  and  strive  to 
correct  it;  but  since  physical  training  is  not 
compulsory  in  our  educational  system,  their 
advice  is  seldom  followed,  the  student  prefer- 
ring to  follow  his  own  mistaken  will.  The 
man  must  beat  his  rivals,  the  college  must 
beat  its  sister  colleges,  at  any  cost.  So  that 
college  athletics,  which  might  have  so  great 
an  influence  for  nobility  and  beauty  in  form- 
ing American  manhood,  are  actually  always 
too  near  exhibitionary  gladiatorial  profes- 
sionalism, and  tend  to  vulgarize  and  brutalize 
their  students. 

Another  danger  to  be  avoided  in  physical 
^33 


education  is  an  excess  of  simultaneous  class- 
work.  The  good  to  be  obtained  from  it,  of 
course,  is  that  it  trains  the  pupil  in  habits  of 
prompt  cooperation,  and  gives  him  a  sense 
of  responsibility  and  of  his  relative  impor- 
tance as  a  unit  in  an  organized  society.  It 
teaches  him  to  sink  his  identity  in  the  general 
identity  of  the  class.  And  it  is  just  here  that 
the  danger  of  class  work  lies;  for  in  teaching 
the  pupil  to  keep  time  with  others  and  move 
in  unison  with  others,  it  tends  to  force  him 
out  of  his  natural  rhythm  and  characteristic 
motion.  Class  drill  may  produce  very  pretty 
results  for  purposes  of  exhibition,  it  may  save 
space  and  time  in  teaching;  but  at  the  same 
time  it  may  do  violence  to  the  individual  in- 
stinct and  mechanism  of  every  member  of  the 
class.  Appropriate  enough  in  military  coun- 
tries like  Germany,  where  discipline  and  the 
state  are  counted  all-important,  it  is  not  at 
all  appropriate  in  America,  where  the  indi- 
vidual is  valued  above  the  system,  where  we 
are  more  concerned  in  making  men  than  in 

134 


making  machines,  and  where  we  esteem  effi- 
cient spontaneity  and  originality  more  than 
stolidity  and  obedience. 

Perhaps  the  most  flagrant  example  of  the 
evil  of  class  drill  is  to  be  found  in  an  extraor- 
dinary performance  in  which  ten  or  a  dozen 
men  stand  in  a  file  between  two  poles  which 
they  grasp  in  their  hands.  Then  the  arms 
are  moved  up  and  down,  in  and  out,  in  vari- 
ous ways,  just  as  they  might  be  in  many  fig- 
ures of  ordinary  calisthenic  drill.  Here  the 
performance  is  purely  an  exhibitionary  feat, 
and  is  worse  than  valueless  educationally. 
There  is  no  possibility  of  any  one  of  the  per- 
formers keeping  his  own  rhythm  and  quality 
of  motion.  He  submits  himself  to  an  avera- 
ging machine,  which  cannot  but  impair  his 
motional  habits  and  trammel  his  spontaneous 
vitality.  He  might  go  through  the  same 
movements  by  himself  with  nothing  but  bene- 
ficial results;  but  when  he  follows  them  in 
this  inflexible  unison,  he  can  receive  nothing 
but  injury.     This  is  an  instance  of  the  truth 

135 


that  exercise  may  be  injurious  not  only  when 
it  is  excessive,  but  when  it  is  foolish,  ill-reg- 
ulated, and  not  adapted  to  individual  good. 

It  is  of  the  greatest  importance,  therefore, 
that  all  pupils  should  be  carefully  educated 
individually  before  being  allowed  to  do  si- 
multaneous work.  Their  peculiar  traits  of 
rhythm  and  the  manner  of  their  motion  have 
to  be  considered,  and  their  peculiar  faults 
corrected,  before  they  can  afiford  to  exercise 
.  in  unison  with  others.  It  is  no  more  possible 
'  to  give  an  individual  proper  physical  train- 
ing through  class  work  alone  than  it  is  to  give 
him  proper  vocal  training  by  the  same  means. 
When  sufficient  individual  motion  training 
has  once  been  gained,  it  penetrates  and  modi- 
fies and  perfects  all  of  our  exercise  and  makes 
all  well-ordered  activity  beneficial.  What- 
ever sport  we  take  up  becomes  more  than 
doubly  helpful  and  delightful.  The  differ- 
ence between  a  game  of  tennis  played  by  a 
young  man  whose  motion  is  bad,  —  restricted, 


136 


disorderly  and  ineffectual,  —  and  one  played 
by  a  player  whose  motion  is  free  and  graceful 
and  adequate,  is  immense,  —  the  difference 
in  enjoyment  as  well  as  in  results  and  appear- 
ance. There  is  no  need  for  any  new  form 
of  exercise;  we  only  need  to  apply  better 
motion  to  the  numberless  forms  already  exist- 
ing. 

But  how,  it  may  be  asked,  are  we  to  secure 
the  exercise  best  suited  to  each  individual? 
Chiefly  in  two  ways:  by  selecting  exercise  to 
serve  the  physical  needs  and  defects  of  the 
student,  so  that  it  becomes  a  source  of  reme- 
dial development  as  well  as  a  means  of 
health;  and  by  adapting  that  exercise  to  the 
student's  own  peculiar  rhythm,  either  to  cor- 
rect or  to  emphasize  it  so  that  it  becomes  a 
naturally  educative  process,  refreshing  the 
personality,  as  well  as  the  physicality.  The 
first  precaution  is  practised  generally  enough, 
but  the  second  is  not  even  recognized  as  a 
necessity;    and  yet  the  one  is  as  needful  as 


137 


2ri|c  i&^itins  of  i^rtsonalttff 

the  other  if  physical  education  is  to  result 
in  the  production  of  individual  happiness, 
power,  and  beauty. 

If  physical  training  is  to  have  any  really 
educative  value,  if  it  is  to  be  an  integral  part 
of  a  humane  culture,  it  cannot  rest  satisfied 
with  developing  strength,  endurance,  and 
skill,  delightful  and  goodly  as  these  qualities 
are;  it  must  be  civilizing  in  its  tendency,  and 
help  to  eliminate  violent  impulses,  minimi- 
zing and  obliterating  all  that  is  savage  and 
ferocious  in  our  animal  nature,  and  retaining 
and  developing  all  that  is  wholesome  and 
needful.  It  must,  in  other  words,  cooperate 
with  mental  and  moral  training  in  the  per- 
fecting of  the  human  being,  in  imposing 
guidance,  restraint,  and  fineness  upon  prim- 
itive impulse,  in  securing  the  freedom  of 
spirit  and  the  supremacy  of  reason.  It  must 
not  hinder  human  evolution  by  keeping  alive 
the  more  ruthless  and  blind  animal  propen- 
sities, it  must  rather  aid  human  progress  by 
educating  instincts  and  directing  them  toward 

138 


i^tjfftJjmfii  of  ©tare 

noble  intelligent  issues;  it  must  help  us  to 
maintain  strength,  resourcefulness  and  cour- 
age, and  to  discard  brutality,  cruelty,  and 
vindictiveness. 

There  is  not  the  least  doubt  that  physical 
education  can  render  great  help  in  doing  this. 
In  bodily  training,  as  in  all  other  realms  of 
life,  it  is  practice  that  forms  habit,  and  habit 
that  forms  character.  The  calling  of  the  fire- 
man or  the  coast-guard  must  educe  and  stim- 
ulate the  humaner  instincts,  sympathy,  gen- 
erosity, kindliness,  unselfishness,  tenderness; 
while  it  also  requires  no  less  courage  and  en- 
durance than  the  brutalizing  art  of  war.  As 
a  vocation  thus  exerts  so  potent  an  influence 
in  the  formation  of  character,  even  so  must 
bodily  training  exert  a  definite  modifying 
guidance.  Inborn  pugnacity  tends  to  make 
a  man  a  fighter,  and  quite  as  surely  does  prac- 
tice in  boxing  develop  pugnacity. 

Civilization  does  not  consist  of  architecture 
and  wealth,  but  of  spirituality,  temper,  and  at- 
titude of  mind.    Nevertheless  we  are  civilized 

139 


Ci^r  i«aft(nfl  of  jpetsonallts 

by  circumstances,  by  the  tasks  which  society 
imposes  upon  us,  quite  as  much  as  by  our  own 
direct  aspirations.  We  modify  our  actions 
at  the  bidding  of  impulse  and  intention;  and 
our  gestures,  voices,  and  habits  of  motion  are 
faithfully  indicative  of  the  personality  be- 
neath; and  no  less  certainly  is  our  personal- 
ity modified  and  moulded  in  turn  by  the  re- 
flex influence  of  its  own  acts  and  expressions, 
whether  spontaneous  or  imitative.  Imitation 
is  one  of  Nature's  rudimentary  means  of 
growth;  but  it  needs  superlative  standards, 
and  even  then  it  cannot  advantageously  sup- 
plant individual  effort.  To  make  any  act  or 
gesture  or  mode  of  speech  or  motion  habitual 
through  deliberate  repetition  is  to  stimulate 
in  the  personality  the  appropriate  moral  qual- 
ity or  emotion  of  which  such  act  or  gesture 
is  the  expression.  The  student  of  acting  can- 
not practise  the  expressions  of  anger,  despair, 
revenge,  or  love,  without  exciting  those  pas- 
sions in  his  own  heart.    So  inseparably  allied 


140 


are  spirit  and  sense,  —  so  interdependent  are 
their  aims,  their  interests,  and  their  spheres. 

In  order  that  exercise  may  be  most  helpful 
and  ensure  the  best  results,  it  must  be  of  a 
kind  which  can  become  instinctive  and  auto- 
matic. Otherwise  it  may  necessitate  a  too 
constant  strain  on  the  attention  and  fail  to 
produce  that  economy  of  motion  which  we 
recognize  as  grace,  and  which  is  always  pres- 
ent when  energy  is  allowed  to  play  freely 
through  its  physical  embodiment.  Men  and 
women  are  only  ungraceful  through  some 
hindrance  offered  to  this  free  play  of  energy, 
whether  it  be  a  physical  impediment,  a  bad 
habit  of  motional  procedure,  the  restraint  of 
self-consciousness,  or  only  the  constrictions  of 
modern  dress. 

An  animal  may  be  ungraceful  in  our  eyes, 
but  it  is  rarely  awkward  or  inept  in  its  move- 
ments. Many  of  them  seem  to  us  monstrous 
and  ungainly,  but  of  such  species  we  must 
remember   that   their  world   is   so    different 


141 


from  ours,  their  requirements  so  alien,  that 
our  standards  of  grace  and  theirs  can  hardly 
be  the  same.  Judged  by  the  inflexible  de- 
mands of  its  life  and  its  surroundings,  the  mo- 
tion of  any  perfectly  normal  creature  will  be 
found  to  show  the  highest  economy  of  effort. 
And  this  among  mortals  is  the  criterion  of 
grace.  Animal  motion  is  good  through  being 
instinctive  and  free,  and  our  own  motion  can 
only  become  graceful  when  those  qualities 
are  ensured  for  it. 

The  body  is  constantly  tending  to  adopt 
habits  either  good  or  bad  in  its  motional  life 
and  to  make  them  automatic;  it  knows  and 
profits  by  the  secret  of  routine;  and  by  pref- 
erence it  will  adopt  good  habits  rather  than 
bad,  —  a  saving  rather  than  a  wasteful  ex- 
penditure of  energy.  We  can  have  no  natural 
preference  for  bad  habits  of  motion,  no  real 
zest  or  enthusiasm  in  awkward  actions,  since 
these  can  never  become  deeply  instinctive  nor 
expressive,  but  must  always  be  distasteful  to 
our  normal  animal  consciousness  and  our  best 

142 


taste.  We  must  use  our  bodies  as  they  prefer 
to  be  used,  just  as  a  good  rider  must  make 
allowances  for  the  preference  of  his  horse, 
and  ride  him  as  he  wishes  to  be  ridden. 

The  best  exercises,  therefore,  are  those  ) 
which  permit  freest  play  to  normal  motion, 
freest  expression  to  the  physical  character  of 
the  individual.  And  since  the  body  cannot 
repeat  with  pleasure  any  motion  which  is  un- 
suited  to  its  own  rhythmic  preferences,  but 
does  repeat  gladly  any  motion  whose  rhythm 
and  form  are  adapted  to  its  peculiarities,  it 
follows  that  the  most  congenial  exercises  are 
those  whose  rhythms  may  be  varied  and 
adapted  to  meet  individual  need. 

For  this  reason  the  use  of  Indian  clubs  is 
one  of  the  most  beneficial  and  delightful 
gymnastics.  They  give  the  body  something 
to  do  beyond  the  mere  stretch  of  muscles  ob- 
tained in  calisthenic  exercise  without  appara- 
tus. They  lure  us  to  exertion,  like  riding  or 
swimming,  without  calling  for  a  constant 
effort  of  volition.     At  the   same  time   they 

143 


\ 


demand  the  least  possible  strain  or  attach- 
ment with  a  mechanical  world.  They  have, 
the  guise  of  a  work,  and  yet  they  leave  the 
body  almost  absolutely  free  in  its  motion. 
They  afford  it  an  opportunity  for  rhythmic 
action,  and  yet  leave  perfect  liberty  to  mod- 
ify that  rhythm  at  will.  They  are  thus  truly 
educational,  inculcating  the  science  of  motion 
and  developing  the  art  of  motion  at  the  same 
time.  Their  persistent  rhythms  tend  to  do 
away  with  faulty  idiosyncrasies  of  motion, 
and  to  replace  a  disorderly,  spasmodic,  cum- 
bersome, violent,  or  ineffectual  habit  of  phys- 
ical action  by  one  that  is  well-ordered,  reg- 
ular, exact  and  capable.  The  practice  of  In- 
dian clubs  introduces  us  to  a  world  of  rap- 
turous harmonies,  where  energy  can  find  a 
pure  enjoyment  neither  servile  nor  lawless. 
Indeed,  by  making  us  accustomed  to  a  freer 
and  at  the  same  time  a  more  regulated  mo- 
tion, they  give  us  a  hint  of  the  great  truth  that 
lawlessness  is  a  hindrance  and  not  a  help  to 
liberty.     Their  gentle   discipline   rescues   us 

144 


from  any  possible  disorderliness  of  motion, 
and  impresses  us  with  the  order  and  sym- 
metry of  freedom.  They  approach  more 
nearly  the  free  art  of  dancing  than  other 
forms  of  exercise,  and  share  its  power  of  hyp- 
notizing the  mind,  fascinating  the  attention, 
and  so  allowing  the  dormant  animal  con- 
sciousness to  emerge  and  grow.  They  teach 
the  muscles  to  think  for  themselves  and  to  act 
independently.  They  encourage  good  mo- 
tion, and  by  making  it  automatic,  tend  to 
make  it  instinctive  for  future  use.  Further 
than  that,  the  natural  freedom  which  they 
offer  the  body  infects  the  spirit  with  gladness. 
Their  rhythms,  like  the  rhythms  of  the  dance, 
awaken  in  the  personality  latent  primordial 
joy  by  making  activity  expressive,  and  restore 
the  soul  to  full  possession  and  control  of  the 
body,  so  that  it  can  find  there  again  its  lawful 
satisfactions,  its  sufficient  avenues  of  expres- 
sion, its  mobile  salutary  means  of  achieve- 
ment, its  virile  sustenance,  its  orderly  reen- 
forcement,  its  happy  existence. 

145 


The  most  graceful  form  of  Indian  club  is 
of  the  long-handled  English  pattern,  nine- 
teen inches  in  length,  made  of  soft  wood  hol- 
lowed for  the  sake  of  lightness,  and  weighing 
not  more  than  eight  or  ten  ounces.  This  pat- 
tern of  club  will  be  found  to  give  far  more 
satisfactory  results  than  the  old-fashioned 
heavy  type,  which  weighed  two  or  three 
pounds  at  least.  The  heavy  club  compelled 
great  exertion  through  certain  parts  of  the 
swing,  thus  retarding  the  motion  at  points, 
while  it  hurried  the  motion  at  other  points  of 
the  swing  by  the  inertia  of  its  weight.  The 
lighter  club,  which  is  also  better  balanced, 
allows  a  more  even  and  regular  use  of  the 
muscles,  a  smoother  and  more  graceful  mo- 
tion, with  an  equal  distribution  of  energy 
throughout  the  whole  circle  of  the  swing.  It 
permits  much  wrist  and  finger  work  quite  im- 
possible with  the  heavier  club;  and  this  pos- 
sibility of  extending  exercise  to  the  very  ends 
of  the  fingers  is  important  in  the  development 
of  a  full  unconscious  rhythm  in  personal  mo- 

146 


tion.  As  a  consequence  of  this  better  rhythm 
and  more  uniform  exertion,  the  physical  de- 
velopment produced  by  the  lighter  club  is  far 
more  beautiful  than  that  produced  by  the 
heavier  instrument.  The  one  gives  a  well- 
rounded  muscularity,  at  no  point  overexer- 
cised,  and  at  no  point  neglected,  while  the 
other  developed  the  exaggerated  biceps  and 
lumpy  muscles  of  the  circus  gymnast  of  our 
boyhood. 

In  swinging  clubs,  the  body  must  of  course 
be  held  in  proper  poise  with  the  weight  on 
the  balls  of  the  feet  and  the  chest  held  up  as 
in  elation.  Every  movement  must  originate 
in  the  breast  and  be  transmitted  not  only  to 
the  tips  of  the  fingers  but  as  far  as  the  eyes 
and  tips  of  the  toes;  so  that  the  whole  phy- 
sique may  participate  in  the  rhythmic  exhil- 
aration, and  while  the  body  may  not  actually 
rise  from  the  ground  at  each  swing,  it  may^  at 
least  seem  to  be  quickened  by  vibration  and 
elasticity  in  its  kinetic  poise.  To  this  end  the 
body  must  never  be  tense,  for  in  certain  uses 

147 


of  the  clubs,  as  in  the  pendular  swing,  the  arm 
learns  to  be  as  passive  as  a  swinging  rope,  all 
the  impulse  being  given  by  the  chest  and 
shoulder.  In  many  movements  the  fingers, 
too,  are  as  lax  as  may  be,  and  retain  their  hold 
with  the  least  possible  attachment,  so  that  the 
exercise  may  more  nearly  approach  an  abso- 
lutely "  free  gymnastic,"  —  that  is,  a  gym- 
nastic of  the  body  without  apparatus.  This 
delicacy  of  poise  and  hold  breeds  grace  of 
motion,  without  at  all  diminishing  the  devel- 
opment of  strength.  It  adds  skill  and  ecstasy 
to  crude  power. 

That  Indian  clubs  may  afford  one  of  the 
most  normalizing  of  exercises  is  unquestion- 
able. But  it  must  be  remembered  that  their 
normalizing  value,  their  power  to  render  per- 
sonal motion  more  graceful  and  proficient, 
and  personality  thereby  more  effectual,  de- 
pends almost  altogether  on  the  way  in  which 
they  are  used.  They  may  be  used  to  increase 
muscular  strength  and  manipulatory  skill, 
and  still  fail  to  have  any  direct  effect  in  nor- 

148 


3Ktlffti)ins  of  ©tare 

malizing  personal  habits  of  motion.  In  order 
that  their  best  effects  may  be  realized,  —  in 
order  that  they  may  make  personal  motion 
permanently  better,  and  personality  itself 
more  sane  and  normal,  —  they  must  be  prac- 
tised with  an  intelligent  understanding  of 
their  advantages,  a  feeling  for  their  rhythmic 
possibilities,  which  is  the  chief  benefit  they 
secure.  Unless  clubs  are  swung  with  as  much 
happy  zest  and  abandonment  and  apprecia- 
tion of  their  graceful  harmonies  as  one  would 
bring  to  the  fine  art  of  dancing,  their  utmost 
benefit  will  be  lost.  Without  realizing  this, 
we  might  practise  them  all  our  days  and  de- 
rive but  little  improvement  in  grace  or  bear- 
ing. But  to  feel  the  enchantment  of  their 
rhythms,  the  sorcery  of  their  complex  har- 
monious movements,  as  they  wheel  through 
space  in  their  silent  arabesques;  to  follow 
and  obey  their  delicate  law  and  yet  modify 
their  evolutions  at  pleasure;  to  produce  new 
and  almost  infinite  varieties  of  flying  curves 
out  of  their  few  elementary  figures,  is  to  ex- 

149 


STijr  J«aft(u0  of  J^etsonalftj? 

perience  the  veritable  artistic  rapture,  and  be 
carried  out  of  oneself  into  the  region  of  true 
creation  where  magic  happens  and  beauty  is 
born. 

Such  exercise  teaches  the  body  the  funda- 
mental laws  of  motion,  the  simple  and  pri- 
mary rules  of  grace,  and  leads  it  by  a  wise 
education  through  subtle  intricacies  to  a 
happy  participation  in  the  order  and  freedom 
of  life.  Club-swinging  ought  to  form  a  part 
of  all  elementary  education,  since  it  induces 
a  normal  development,  advantageous  in  itself 
and  serviceable  in  any  commonest  kind  of 
labour;  while  out  of  its  physical  harmonies 
the  finest  personality  may  spring.  The  edu- 
cation it  provides,  so  basic  and  so  requisite, 
tending  to  refine  our  physical  nature,  as 
music  and  mathematics  do  the  mind,  would 
help  to  make  every  workman  an  artist  and 
every  artist  a  master  in  his  craft.  Not  only 
in  an  ideal  republic,  but  in  this  practical 
world,  the  hod-carrier  and  the  poet  may  bene- 


150 


iSiftstf^mu  of  ©rate 

fit  alike  by  training  in  a  field  of  motion  where 
the  rhythms  of  grace  are  supreme. 

A  second  form  of  exercise,  which  may  well 
supplement  the  use  of  Indian  clubs,  is  pro- 
vided by  the  medicine-ball.  Here  the  ele- 
ment of  art  is  lessened,  since  the  movements 
are  less  conventional,  and  the  rhythms  less 
pronounced;  but  there  is  a  compensation  for 
this  loss  in  the  added  element  of  sport  which 
is  introduced  through  companionship  in  prac- 
tice, and  by  the  increased  capacity  for  the 
direct  development  of  strength.  The  Indian 
clubs  serve  to  invigorate  and  refresh  the 
whole  being,  in  the  same  way  that  a  few  min- 
utes of  good  breathing  will  do.  The  med-< 
icine-ball  does  more  than  this;  in  offering 
scope  for  greater  muscular  effort,  it  makes  an 
excellent  step  from  the  training  in  pure  mo- 
tion of  the  Indian  clubs  to  the  applied  exer- 
tions of  heavy  gymnastics,  athletics  or  actual 
labour.  It  brings  all  the  muscles  into  play 
equally  and  well,  demanding  variety  of  poise, 
and  cultivating  the  beginning  of  judgment, 

151 


2Ci)t  JHaltefng  of  Jletsonalltff 

promptness,  responsiveness,  and  skill.  Like 
any  other  form  of  exercise,  it  should  of  course 
be  practised  with  a  constant  heed  to  the  qual- 
ity of  its  motions,  the  grace  and  orderliness  of 
efifort,  as  inculcated  by  the  Indian  clubs. 
Every  catch  and  throw  should  embody  a  con- 
sciousness of  rhythm  and  a  pleasure  in  eco- 
nomic and  thorough  motion  that  would  lend 
satisfaction  and  gladness  to  activity. 

These  forms  of  exercise,  if  rightly  pursued, 
will  go  far  toward  making  good  motion  in- 
stinctive and  habitual,  so  that  all  tasks  may  be 
undertaken  and  executed  with  an  intelligent 
and  automatic  economy  of  force.  If  it  be 
only  scrubbing  a  floor  or  washing  a  window, 
the  work  will  be  the  better  done  for  any  pre- 
vious training  in  orderly,  regulated  motion. 
To  cultivate  bodily  perfection  for  no  end  but 
the  perfection  itself  would  be  a  vain  and  fool- 
ish pursuit.  Unless  our  sports,  our  athletics, 
our  whole  physical  education,  are  to  have 
some  application  to  real  life,  and  serve  to 
make  it  easier  and  happier,  they  must  be  sadly 

152 


futile.  But  to  be  able  to  carry  into  daily  la- 
bour and  activity  an  actual  pleasure  in  every 
motion,  to  feel  a  glad  satisfaction  in  the  exert- 
ing of  physical  energy,  is  substantial  gain. 
Even  the  most  uncongenial  labour  then  loses 
half  its  drudgery,  and  may  be  turned,  for  all 
its  disagreeableness,  into  positive  and  appre- 
ciable benefit. 

Not  only  does  the  habit  of  good  motion,  or 
grace,  give  us  greater  ease  and  efficiency  for 
work;  it  helps  us  to  extract  a  measure  of 
needful  recuperative  exercise  from  all  ab- 
sorbing daily  tasks.  The  business  man  who 
has  no  time  for  other  exercise  than  the  walk 
of  perhaps  a  couple  of  miles  to  and  from  his 
office  may  make  that  help  to  keep  him  in 
health,  if  he  has  learned  to  walk  and  breathe 
well.  Even  sitting  at  a  desk  all  day  may  be 
made  less  exhausting  and  distressing  if  the 
worker  shall  have  learned  to  hold  his  or  her 
body  well  and  to  be  careful  to  secure  an  abun- 
dance of  fresh  air  all  the  time,  and  to  breathe 
it  properly.    There  is  as  much  need  for  right 

153 


carriage  in  silting  as  in  standing;  and  if  the 
body  is  kept  under  control  through  all  the 
waking  hours,  —  poised,  alert,  and  vibrant, 
without  overtension  and  with  adequate  breath- 
ing, —  the  quietest  occupation  may  be  made 
to  furnish  enough  good  exercise  to  preserve 
some  measure  of  happy  health.  Nor  will  any 
toil,  short  of  the  impossible,  seem  too  great, 
or  leave  the  well-ordered  being  exhausted 
without  recompense  and  chance  of  recupera- 
tion. Real  joy  in  action  is  a  magic  lightener 
of  Titanic  and  distasteful  tasks. 

The  housewife  or  shop-girl  who  has  to  be 
on  her  feet  all  day  does  not  suffer  so  much 
from  the  excessive  hours  of  work  as  from  a 
lack  of  such  physical  training  as  would  give 
her  free  animal  intelligence  in  the  use  of  her 
body.  Every  hour,  hampered  by  artificial 
hindrances,  is  a  drag  and  brings  only  weari- 
ness and  discouragement,  because  every  move- 
ment is  wasteful  and  disorganizing,  making 
gladness  and  economic  efficiency  of  labour 
impossible.    Just  as  it  is  not  work  but  worry 

154 


that  wears  out  the  mind  and  depresses  the 
spirit,  so  it  is  not  work  but  ineptitude  that 
wears  out  the  body  and  fatigues  the  willing 
heart. 

Grace  is  not  merely  an  adornment  of  life, 
but,  like  beauty,  it  is  an  inherent  requisite, 
indicating  perfection  of  motion,  as  beauty  in- 
dicates perfection  of  form.  Both  are  neces- 
sities of  personality  and  revelations  of  power, 
not  to  be  affected  nor  compelled,  but  to  be 
cultivated  lawfully  and  revered  as  puissant 
oracles  of  the  divine. 


155 


JSeautg  of  tt}t  iFoot 


"  Great  toe,  little  toe,  three  toes  between. 
All  in  a  pointed  shoe  — 
Ne'er  was  so  tiny  a  fo' castle  seen. 
Nor  so  little  room  for  the  crew." 

So  might  an  observer  of  the  average 
pointed-toed  shoes  exclaim. 

It  is  strange  that  beautiful  feet  are  almost 
nowhere  to  be  seen  nowadays  except  among 
babies,  Orientals  and  savages.  That  wonder- 
ful human  member,  so  strong,  so  patient,  so 
sensitive,  so  marvellously  built  and  mathe- 
matically contrived  with  its  arches  and  levers, 
so  cunningly  adapted  to  its  ceaseless  employ- 
ment, has  undeservedly  become  a  thing  of 
shame  to  be  covered  and  hidden  from  sight. 

156 


m^uts  of  tfie  iFoot 

Yet  what  poetry  and  romance  reside  in  the 
normal  naked  foot!  The  hand  itself  is  not 
more  beautiful  nor  more  significant;  though 
we  sing  the  praises  of  the  one,  while  the  other 
we  must  never  mention.  Consider  the  service 
of  the  foot,  bearing  us  hither  and  thither  over 
the  face  of  the  lovely  earth,  up  hill  and  down 
valley,  by  road  and  tangled  meadow,  through 
the  open  world,  beneath  the  open  sky,  to  many 
destinations,  on  errands  of  kindness  or  pleas- 
ure through  all  the  bright  business  of  life. 

Consider  how  life  itself  has  risen,  like  an 
emanation  from  the  fertile  ground  —  first 
through  trees  and  plants  and  particoloured 
flowers,  which  truly  share  the  breath  of  ex- 
istence, yet  must  for  ever  remain  patiently  in 
one  spot;  next  in  the  creeping  and  crawling 
forms  w^hich  move  ceaselessly  over  the  green 
surface  of  the  earth  with  such  infinite  slow- 
ness; and  then  finally  in  the  creatures  which 
run  and  walk  as  they  will,  almost  as  inde- 
pendent as  the  wandering  clouds.  They  be- 
long to  the   race  w^hich  has   detached  itself 

157 


from  the  mighty  parent,  to  wander  between 
heaven  and  earth,  abiding  where  it  will,  free 
with  that  power  of  moving  on  nimble  feet,  — 
a  power,  when  you  think  of  it,  scarcely  less 
extraordinary  than  that  of  certain  flies  to  skate 
on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  stream.  Think 
of  the  silent  pad  of  the  great  cats  as  they  move 
to  the  hunt,  hardly  turning  a  stone  or  snap- 
ping a  twig.  Think  of  the  sure  hoof  of  the 
mountain  climbers,  passing  from  ledge  to 
ledge  at  dizzy  altitudes  in  intrepid  security, 
or  of  the  cunning  and  exquisitely  sensitive 
hoof  of  the  deer,  adapting  itself  to  every  step 
at  such  swift  pace;  feet  for  all  surfaces,  all 
countries,  all  necessities  of  weight  and  speed. 
Think  of  all  these  animal  myriads  as  they 
come  and  go  upon  their  business  in  the  wild 
places  of  the  world,  and  how  their  feet  must 
always  mark  the  measure  of  their  strength. 

The  only  greater  wanderer  and  journeyer 
is  man  himself,  the  incorrigible  nomad.  Un- 
der tents  or  in  palaces  his  abiding  is  hardly 


158 


ntunts  of  tJie  iFoot 

more  stable  than  life  itself,  as  it  fleets  from 
instant  to  instant.  He  goes  forth  in  the  morn- 
ing of  time  in  bands,  in  hordes,  in  armies, 
hunting,  conquering,  settling;  through  dust, 
through  snow,  through  swamp  or  forest;  by 
trail  and  ford  and  red  highway;  and  always 
his  tireless  feet  must  bear  him  forward  to  his 
goal.  The  anabasis  of  the  Ten  Thousand; 
the  wandering  of  the  Israelites  in  the  wilder- 
ness; Napoleon's  retreat  from  Moscow;  Sher- 
man's march  to  the  sea;  all  the  countless  ex- 
peditions of  armed  men  forgotten  long  ago; 
all  the  daring  adventures  of  hunters,  lovers, 
explorers,  seekers  for  gold,  or  mere  restless 
waifs  driven  by  their  own  fatuous  whim; 
forced  marches  by  night;  leisurely  rovings  by 
day;  —  how  all  these  wayfarings  testify  to  the 
courageous,  patient  feet  which  went  upon 
them,  returning  in  triumph  or  coming  back 
no  more! 

You  think  fondly  of  the  beloved  hands  that 
served   and  tended  and  solaced  you;    think 


159 


also  of  the  willing  feet  that  have  done  your 
pleasure,  —  run  your  errands,  companioned 
you  on  many  a  delightful  walk,  and  come  to 
meet  you  on  how  many  a  glad  return!  How 
cherishable  are  the  feet  of  the  beloved,  with 
all  their  rose-leaf  delicacy  of  texture,  their 
network  of  sensibility  as  responsive  as  the 
palm  of  the  hand  or  even  the  life-breathing 
lips!  In  the  beautiful  deft  sandalled  feet  of 
dancing-girls  what  enchantment  lurks,  what 
a  sense  of  power  to  go  and  come  at  the  sweet 
will  of  the  spirit!  They  may  gleam  and  tan- 
talize and  allure  and  madden  the  infatuated 
beholder;  yet  in  truth  they  are  all  the  while 
expressive  of  capacities  for  patient  docility 
and  the  sublime  helpfulness  of  women.  Over 
unnumbered  leagues  of  travel  in  all  times, 
under  all  weathers,  through  trackless  jungles 
with  death  lurking  in  the  shadows;  across 
pathless  wastes  of  snow  with  death  stalking 
naked  as  the  wind;  through  all  lands  and  sea- 
sons and  circumstances,  the  untiring,  indom- 
itable feet  of  man  have  gone,  carrying  him 

i6o 


Utants  of  tiie  iFoot 

to  the  door  of  his  desire.  Think  of  all  this, 
and  then  declare  whether  the  human  foot  is 
not  worthy  of  honour. 

When  we  think  of  the  foot  as  strong  and 
capable  and  performing  all  its  tasks  so  thor- 
oughly and  well,  we  instinctively  think  of  it 
as  beautiful.  The  idea  of  beauty  is  funda- 
mentally an  appreciation  of  absolute  fitness. 
Those  things  come  to  seem  beautiful  to  us 
which  are  exquisitely  efficient,  —  which  dis- 
charge their  functions  with  fascinating  expe- 
dition and  economy.  So  that  the  moment  we 
reflect  on  the  wonderful  adaptability  and  ef- 
fective power  of  the  human  foot,  our  latent 
admiration  is  aroused  at  once^  our  esthetic 
enthusiasm  is  satisfied.  Our  popular  notion 
of  a  pretty  foot,  on  the  other  hand,  does  not 
call  up  a  picture  of  the  naked  foot  at  all.  It 
means  something  quite  different,  —  simply  a 
conventionalized  form,  a  pretty  shoe,  a  neatly 
made  article  of  fine  kid  and  soft  patent 
leather,  having  a  certain  prettiness  of  its  own 
in  line  and  texture,  but  having  little  relation 

i6i 


to  the  human  foot  either  in  shape  or  in  serv- 
iceability. The  modern  shoe  with  its  pointed 
toe  and  high  heel  may  be  interesting  as  a  bric- 
a-brac,  as  all  human  fashions  are  interesting, 
however  extreme  or  bizarre;  but  its  compara- 
tive uselessness,  its  lack  of  anything  like  per- 
fect fitness  to  meet  the  demands  which  will 
be  put  upon  it,  make  it  essentially  an  inartis- 
tic invention.  As  long  as  it  remains  so  arti- 
ficial in  shape  and  so  ill  adapted  to  its  re- 
quirements, it  can  never  be  a  really  beautiful 
foot-covering.  It  is  little  less  than  an  instru- 
ment of  torture,  and  we  wince  at  realizing  it. 
Strange  that  we  should  condemn  the  foot- 
binding  of  the  Chinese  as  cruelty,  and  will- 
ingly undergo  discomforts  almost  as  excruci- 
ating, and  quite  as  illogical  and  disastrous,  at 
the  mere  caprice  of  custom! 

Without  freedom  of  action  there  can  be 
no  beauty  in  these  supple  shapes  of  clay  into 
which  the  breath  of  life  has  been  blown.  The 
average  well-bred  woman  dare  not  show  a 
bare  foot,  so  cruelly  is  it  blemished  and  mis- 

162 


Ht^nts  of  ti^e  iFoot 

shapen  by  her  ridiculous  shoe.  The  story  is 
told  of  a  beautiful  woman  on  the  American 
stage,  that  she  lost  a  suitor  because  he  once 
chanced  to  see  her  uncovered  foot.  The 
man's  sense  of  beauty  was  revolted  at  the  sight 
of  a  foot,  which  should  naturally  have  been 
beautiful,  deformed  and  disfigured  by  per- 
verted and  perverting  shoes.  The  flaccid 
throat,  the  small,  incompetent  waist,  the  hob- 
bling walk  and  the  crippled  feet  of  fashion 
would  be  disgusting  if  they  were  not  so  piti- 
able and  so  usual. 

Whenever  the  foot  is  liberated  from  its 
fashionable  bondage,  it  returns  to  the  glad 
service  for  which  it  is  formed;  and  all  its 
added  freedom  and  exercise  bring  back  its  lost 
suppleness,  strength  and  grace.  It  grows  sen- 
sitive and  mobile  and  adequately  serviceable 
again,  and  so  again  become  interesting  and 
beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  life.  A  withered 
member,  be  it  hand  or  foot,  cannot  be  made 
lovely  by  being  encased  in  expensive  trap- 
pings. 

163 


2ri|r  JHalKing  of  Jjrrfijonalitff 

What  is  the  naked  human  foot  really  like? 
In  general  outline,  the  natural  foot  is  three- 
sided.  It  approximately  fills  a  triangle  whose 
sides  are  formed  by  the  inside  straight  line 
of  the  foot  from  toe  to  heel,  the  outside 
straight  line  of  the  foot  and  a  straight  line 
across  the  toes.  The  two  long  sides  of  the 
triangle  meet  in  an  apex  behind  the  heel. 
The  point  of  the  foot  is  the  heel,  not  the  toes. 
In  the  naked  foot  of  a  young  child,  still  un- 
deformed  by  shoes,  in  the  feet  of  all  good 
statues  and  paintings,  and  in  the  feet  of  all 
peoples  who  go  barefoot,  this  shape  appears. 
It  is  the  normal  form  of  the  human  foot,  de- 
veloped by  natural  use,  and  giving  adequate 
stability  to  the  body;  and  only  as  our  feet 
conform  to  this  typical  three-cornered  shape 
can  they  make  any  just  claim  to  beauty.  Any 
divergence  from  this  free-spreading,  wide- 
toed  form  means  inadequacy  and  weakness, 
and  therefore  unloveliness. 

Among  the  barefooted  people  of  the  West 
Indies  and  the  Orient,  you  may  see  the  human 

164 


Utauts  of  tfie  iFoot 

foot  in  its  primitive  strength  and  undistorted 
beauty.  If  you  watch  a  young  Negress  going 
by  with  her  burden  on  her  head,  the  free 
stride  of  her  naked  feet,  her  soft  step,  her 
elastic,  undulant  body,  you  will  have  a  new 
idea  of  physical  loveliness.  You  may  note 
how  the  foot  spreads  and  springs  with  every 
step,  bearing  her  forward  in  exquisite  poise, 
with  a  grace  and  nobility  of  carriage  quite  im- 
possible to  our  women  of  modish  gowns  and 
shoes.  She  moves  with  the  ease  and  latent 
power  of  some  wild  creature;  and  watching 
her,  you  grow  aware  how  much  charm  lies  in 
beauty  of  motion,  in  the  mobility  and  action 
as  well  as  in  the  statuesque  perfection  of  the 
human  body.  I  have  to  confess  that  my  sense 
of  what  is  beautiful  and  attractive  in  physical 
perfection  has  found  more  delight  in  the  un- 
fettered swinging  motion  and  free  step  of 
many  a  dark-skinned  portress  through  the 
white  streets  of  Nassau  than  it  finds  in  the 
average  "  at  home,"  where  women  mince 
helplessly  and  artificially  across  a  room,  or 

165 


wobble  unstably  from  chair  to  chair.  In  the 
one  case  I  see  the  alluring  beauty  of  unspoiled 
nature,  stirring  me  to  enthusiasm  without 
shame.  In  the  other  I  see  the  shameful  and 
revolting  perversion  which  foolish  fashion 
has  imposed  upon  women  of  my  own  race. 
I  look  upon  the  foot-bound  Chinese  woman 
with  pity,  but  without  contempt.  The  custom 
she  obeys  is  a  curious  relic  of  tyranny  survi- 
ving from  a  darker  age  of  the  world;  and  the 
very  antiquity  and  helplessness  of  her  enthral- 
ment  lend  pathos  to  her  sorry  plight.  But  I 
cannot  look  at  the  silly  shoe  and  ugly  walk 
of  the  average  American  woman  without  a 
flush  of  indignation,  that  a  people  which 
prides  itself  on  its  intelligence  should  will- 
ingly tolerate  such  crippled  and  ungraceful 
usage. 

There  is  more  in  this  matter  of  graceful 
motion  than  appears  at  first  sight.  Women 
wear  their  absurd  shoes,  no  doubt,  to  make 
their  feet  look  smaller,  more  dapper  and,  as 
they  suppose,   more   attractive;    and  we   all 

i66 


ntunts  of  tfie  iFoot 

tolerate  the  custom.  But  we  all  overlook,  I 
am  sure,  a  very  important  factor  in  charm; 
we  forget  the  fascinating  sorcery  which  re- 
sides in  graceful  motion.  Physical  charm 
does  not  consist  in  perfection  of  colouring  and 
form  alone,  but  in  perfection  of  motion  as 
well.  The  gracious  and  irresistible  allure- 
ment which  a  lovely  woman  exercises  over  the 
hearts  of  any  company  springs  quite  as  much 
from  her  graceful  mobility  and  nobleness  of 
bearing  as  from  any  loveliness  of  face  or  fig- 
ure. Personal  magnetism,  that  strange  unac- 
countable influence  which  plays  upon  us  so 
potently,  yet  ever  eludes  definition,  is  largely 
a  matter  of  freedom  of  poise  and  harmony 
of  movement  —  normal  poise  of  the  body, 
whether  at  rest  or  moving  with  all  the  won- 
derful flexions  and  tensions  of  which  it  is 
capable.  An  elusive,  irresistible  power,  an 
air  almost  superhuman,  seems  to  surround 
that  person  whose  walk  and  bearing  approach 
our  instinctive  standards  of  human  motion  at 
its  best.     So  eagerly  do  we  long  for  beauty, 

167 


for  loveliness  and  power  and  ease  and  grace, 
so  intuitively  do  we  recognize  them,  that 
there  is  no  saying  what  influence  such  deli- 
cacy of  poise  and  refinement  of  motion  may 
not  wield.  The  woman  who  moves  well  may 
have  the  world  at  her  feet;  while  her  rival, 
of  more  beautiful  lineaments  but  with  an 
awkward  carriage  and  ungainly  motion,  may 
retain  her  flawlessness,  picturesque  but  unad- 
mired.  There  is  more  power  in  the  tone  of 
the  voice  than  in  the  meaning  of  the  word 
it  utters.  There  is  more  force  in  a  gesture  the 
hand  makes  than  in  the  mould  of  the  hand 
itself. 

Now  the  basis  of  good  carriage  and  good 
motion,  or  the  basis  of  personal  magnetism, 
is  of  course  a  strong,  flexible,  intelligent  body 
at  the  command  of  a  worthy  personality. 
And  the  prime  support  or  base  of  such  a  body 
must  be  a  pair  of  strong,  flexible,  intelligent 
feet.  Any  foot  w^hich  has  strength,  flexibility 
and  muscular  intelligence  may  not  be  the  most 
beautiful  foot  in  the  world,  but  having  these 

i68 


iSeatutff  of  tftt  iFoot 

qualities  which  go  to  make  grace  and  effi- 
ciency, it  will  surely  be  more  beautiful  than 
one  of  more  perfect  mould  in  which  those 
requisites  are  wanting.  Beauty,  it  cannot  be 
said  too  often,  does  not  mean  shape  alone; 
it  implies  charm  of  effectiveness  and  adapta- 
bility as  well.  The  idea  of  beauty  includes 
the  idea  of  perfect  fitness,  perfect  economy  of 
effort,  perfect  fulfilment  of  a  function,  per- 
fect attainment  of  an  end  or  purpose,  always 
with  the  least  waste  of  energy.  No  foot  — 
indeed,  no  part  of  the  body  —  can  be  beauti- 
ful which  is  not  capable  of  serving  its  natural 
purposes  gracefully;  and  no  member  can 
gracefully  serve  its  natural  purposes  or  fulfil 
its  proper  office  to  the  body  unless  it  is  free. 

The  hand  or  foot  —  or  the  whole  body,  for 
that  matter  —  cannot  be  kept  beautiful  by  dis- 
use. It  was  designed  for  use,  for  motion,  not 
for  immobility.  It  attained  its  present  normal 
beauty,  its  present  formation,  through  con- 
stant service  and  motion;  and  only  by  being 
used  freely  and   lovingly  can  its  beauty  be 

169 


preserved  and  perfected.  Beauty  is  a  result 
of  continual  gracefulness,  an  evidence  of  good 
habits  of  motion.  And  good  motion,  beauti- 
ful, strong,  economical,  intelligent,  can  spring 
only  from  a  gracious  spirit  finding  freedom 
of  expression  through  an  obedient,  mobile 
body.  Freedom,  therefore,  freedom  for  every 
part  and  member  of  the  body,  is  a  prime 
requisite  of  beauty. 

If  we  would  have  beautiful  feet,  we  must 
take  off  our  restricting,  debilitating  shoes.  If 
we  would  have  beautiful  bodies,  we  must 
abandon  our  corsets  and  high  collars,  for  be- 
fore we  can  have  beauty,  we  must  have  grace; 
before  we  can  have  grace,  we  must  have  com- 
plete freedom  of  motion.  We  must  do  away 
with  all  restrictions  of  foot  and  waist  and 
throat  before  the  natural  symmetry  of  the  body 
can  be  regained  or  preserved  with  all  its  de- 
lightful harmonies.  We  must  learn  to  admire 
the  body  with  all  its  natural  spontaneous 
power  and  pliability,  its  capacity  for  action, 
its  instinctive   unhampered   ease.     We   must 

170 


JSeautff  of  tfft  iFoot 

learn  to  despise  the  pititful  restrictions  which 
we  have  allowed  fashion  to  put  upon  us.  We 
must  permit  ourselves,  with  no  loss  of  spiri- 
tuality, to  love  physical  beauty  as  the  Greeks 
loved  it,  as  artists  and  poets  have  always  loved 
it,  and  to  take  a  sane  delight  in  the  normal 
health  and  vigour  and  loveliness  of  the  body. 
That  delight,  in  turn,  will  enhance  and  nour- 
ish our  spirituality;  and  he  who  takes  care 
to  have  a  clean,  active,  wholesome  physique 
will  be  likely  to  have  a  clean,  active,  whole- 
some mind  and  soul  as  well.  Our  delight  in 
physical  beauty  is  a  fine  bloom  of  the  spirit, 
just  as  physical  beauty  itself  —  loveliness  of 
form  and  colour  —  is  the  fine  bloom  of  bodily 
health.  And  beauty  of  form,  let  us  remem- 
ber, can  no  more  subsist  without  freedom  of 
air  and  exercise  than  beauty  of  colour  can; 
they  both  result  from  perfect  health,  and  are 
marks  of  a  fine  normal  exuberance  of  being. 

Hardly  any  decree  of  emancipation  is  more 
needed  to-day  than  one  for  the  liberating  of 
the  foot.    We  have  dangerously  enslaved  our- 

171 


selves  with  uncomfortable  footgear,  and  until 
we  discard  its  perverting  shackles,  we  can 
never  fully  realize  our  inheritance  of  joyous- 
ness  in  possession  of  the  earth.  We  must  be 
able  to  stand  firmly  but  unrigidly,  as  the  trees 
stand  in  the  wind,  nobly  upheld,  yet  sensibly 
swayed  by  the  least  motion  of  our  surround- 
ing atmosphere,  the  least  breath  of  inspira- 
tion, the  least  impulse  of  emotion.  We  must 
be  able  to  move  without  thought  or  hin- 
drance, as  the  animals  move,  as  primitive  man 
could  move.  We  must  be  content  with  noth- 
ing less  than  a  perfect  foot,  such  as  the  an- 
tique statues  have  to  show,  such  as  belongs  to 
Eastern  dancing-girls  and  the  unshod  dwell- 
ers in  tropic  lands.  How  incongruous  Cleo- 
patra, or  Ruth,  or  Helen  of  Troy,  or  the 
Queen  of  Sheba,  would  appear  in  modern 
shoes!  And,  more  than  that,  their  beauty 
would  be  actually  impaired.  All  the  mar- 
vellous grace,  the  simple  strength,  the  fasci- 
nation or  the  dignity  which  they  must  have 
possessed,  would  be  dissipated  as  they  tried 

172 


litants  of  tJie  iFoot 

to  move  about  in  our  uncomfortable  modern 
dress.  The  glamour  in  which  they  hold  our 
imagination  even  now  would  be  lost.  And  it 
would  be  lost  through  bad  motion,  just  as  the 
fascination  that  an  eagle's  flight  may  exercise 
over  us  by  its  power  and  beauty  would  be  lost 
if  he  should  be  suddenly  crippled  in  a  wing 
and  come  limping  to  earth.  The  spell  of 
beautiful  motion  would  be  broken.  He 
would  seem  no  longer  a  wonderful  creation, 
but  merely  a  maimed  and  fluttering  thing  in 
the  clutch  of  a  sorry  accident.  We  ourselves 
are  in  much  the  same  case,  when  we  maim 
at  any  point  our  natural  freedom  of  body,  our 
capacity  for  fine  and  beautiful  activity. 

Our  gain  from  a  physical  emancipation, 
such  as  the  loosening  of  our  dress  would  se- 
cure, would  be  beyond  belief;  for  we  should 
gain  not  only  in  physical  comfort,  but  in  utter 
relief  of  spirit  also;  we  should  be  able  to 
inhale  long  drafts  of  happiness  with  every 
breath,  taste  the  satisfaction  of  being  normal, 
and  feel  the  simple  self-respect  which  comes 

173 


JSTijr  Jilattfno  of  prti^onalits 

from  living  without  affectation  and  in  accord 
with  the  deep  laws  of  our  nature.  It  is  not 
possible  to  be  as  serene  and  light-hearted,  as 
the  good  God  intended,  while  our  bodies  are 
fretted  by  ill-adapted  clothing.  No  woman, 
I  am  sure,  can  be  quite  happy  in  the  array 
which  she  is  required  to  don  for  the  social 
routine.  To  possess  her  soul  with  anything 
like  equanimity,  she  must  retire  to  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  and  if  she  be  a  bond-slave 
to  fashion,  she  will  suffer  from  nothing  more 
completely  than  from  her  shoes. 

The  ideal  shoe  is  a  barefoot  shoe,  following 
the  model  of  the  naked  foot,  and  disregard- 
ing entirely  the  wholly  artificial  models  of 
fashionable  wear.  It  will  be  made  to  fit  the 
foot  and  to  interpose  the  very  least  resistance 
to  all  the  duties  which  the  foot  has  to  per- 
form. It  will  be  dedicated  to  service,  not  to 
affectation;  and  in  that  way  it  will  attain  a 
real  artistic  beauty  such  as  can  never  invest 
the  ludicrous  patterns  of  footwear  prescribed 
by  unnatural  fashion.     It  will  meet  the  need 

174 


ntunts  of  tt|t  iFoot 

of  the  foot  for  protection  and  warmth,  and 
yet  allow  as  much  ventilation  as  possible. 
Since  it  must  adapt  itself  to  work,  it  will  have 
the  utmost  flexibility  consistent  with  strength. 
It  will  differ  from  the  ordinary  shoe  chiefly 
in  three  particulars:  it  will  be  heelless,  it 
will  be  broad  in  the  toe,  and  it  will  be  low- 
cut. 

If  we  take  it  for  granted,  as  we  surely  may, 
that  our  walk  becomes  more  graceful  and  easy 
and  effectual  the  more  nearly  barefoot  we  can 
go,  it  follows  that  the  ideal  shoe  will  have  the 
most  pliable  sole  consistent  with  the  protection 
required,  and  of  an  even  thickness  through- 
out. This  matter  of  flexibility  of  the  sole  is 
of  prime  importance  in  securing  and  main- 
taining a  good  walk  and  carriage.  Even  the 
slight  thickening  of  the  sole  to  form  "  spring 
heels "  interferes  with  good  motion  and 
should  be  avoided.  The  Indian  moccasin  is 
an  ideal  foot-covering  in  this  respect;  for 
although  it  is  too  soft  and  light  to  protect  a 
sensitive  foot  against  damp  or  rough  travel, 

175 


jri^e  jnadteing  of  prtsonalfts 

it  allows  perfectly  free  play  to  that  pliant  roll 
of  the  foot  always  necessary  to  good  walking. 
The  entirely  heelless  shoe  not  only  gives  free- 
dom of  motion;  it  also  compels  the  muscles 
of  the  toes  and  leg  to  keep  the  weight  of  the 
body  poised  over  the  balls  of  the  feet,  —  the 
safest  and  sightliest  balance  either  in  walking 
or  standing.  It  is  a  fundamental  help  to  good 
motion  and  general  poise,  and  it  forces  the 
finest  development  of  leg  muscles  and  en- 
hances healthful  activity,  which  the  average 
conventional  shoe  makes  almost  impracti- 
cable. 

With  a  disuse  of  heels  must  come  a  broad- 
ening of  the  toe  of  the  shoe,  for  the  following 
reason:  When  high  heels  are  worn,  all  flexi- 
bility in  the  use  of  the  foot  is  lost.  Instead 
of  being  a  pliant  springy  support,  as  it  is  nat- 
urally, the  foot  in  its  artificial  covering  be- 
comes practically  a  single  stump;  and  the 
most  beautiful  woman  loses  caste  the  moment 
she  begins  to  walk,  pegging  along  as  if  she 
were  wooden  from  the  knees  down.    As  soon 

176 


IStunts  of  tije  iFoot 

as  heels  are  discarded,  however,  we  must  take 
care  to  return  to  a  normal  walk;  and  a  nor- 
mal walk  implies  an  increased  use  of  the  toes 
and  the  balls  of  the  feet  and  a  consequent 
strengthening  of  all  the  fore  part  of  the  foot, 
with  a  spreading  and  utilizing  of  the  toes. 
So  that  a  pointed-toe  shoe,  which  may  be 
bearable  so  long  as  the  foot  is  used  only  as 
one  might  use  a  wooden  foot  well-jointed  at 
the  ankle,  becomes  intolerable  as  soon  as  we 
attempt  to  carry  ourselves  gracefully,  bring- 
ing the  balls  of  the  feet  and  toes  into  proper 
use. 

In  addition  to  being  without  heels  and  giv- 
ing complete  freedom  to  the  toes  and  balls 
of  the  feet,  the  ideal  barefoot  shoe  will  be 
low-cut.  High  laced  or  button  shoes  are 
worn  for  two  reasons,  both  of  which  are  erro- 
neous. It  is  supposed  that  they  give  support 
to  weak  ankles  and  warmth  to  cold  feet.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  they  only  aggravate  those 
discomforts.  They  make  the  foot  colder  by 
weakening  the  surface  reaction  and  interfer- 

177 


srtje  JWafeCitfl  of  Jlrrsonalits 

ing  with  the  circulation,  and  they  make  the 
ankle  weaker  by  hindering  its  exercise.  Mus- 
cles are  strengthened  by  use,  not  by  support 
and  disuse.  The  growing  custom  of  keeping 
children  in  "  spring-heel  "  shoes  is  excellent, 
so  far  as  it  goes;  but  they  should  always  be 
low  shoes  with  broad  toes,  and  are  better  with 
no  heels  at  all.  It  is  the  constricting  repres- 
sion of  high,  tightly  buttoned  shoes  that  gives 
to  so  many  children  and  young  girls  wooden 
ankles,  calfless  shanks,  and  a  flat-footed  walk, 
where  we  might  rightfully  expect  shapeliness, 
elasticity  and  grace.  Sandals,  of  course,  are 
excellent  for  the  perfect  ventilation  and  free- 
dom they  allow,  though  they  may  not  always 
afford  sufficient  protection. 

The  normal  muscular  use  of  the  feet  in 
proper  shoes  will  prevent  "  flat-foot."  That 
painful  malady,  contrary  to  popular  super- 
stition, is  invited  rather  than  prevented  by 
high  heels  and  steel  supports.  The  artificial 
prop  and  brace  accustom  the  foot  to  depend 
upon  their  aid,  and  so  gradually  to  lose  rather 

178 


ISeauts  of  tfje  iFoot 

than  gain  strength;  they  really  only  aggra^ 
vate  the  trouble  and  one  who  resorts  to  their 
help  is  sure  to  go  from  bad  to  worse.  The 
wonderful  arch  of  the  foot  breaks  down 
through  being  misused,  not  through  being 
overused.  To  bind  it  and  support  it  only 
interferes  with  its  natural  muscular  play;  so 
that  it  becomes  weakened  and  atrophied 
through  disuse,  as  any  member  would  under 
similar  conditions.  Whereas  if  it  be  prop- 
erly used  in  an  unrestricting  shoe,  all  neces- 
sary exercise  will  strengthen  it. 

To  change  from  high  heels  and  arch-sup- 
porting shoes  to  free  shoes,  without  transfer- 
ring the  poise  of  the  body  from  the  heels  and 
arch  and  stiffened  knees  to  the  balls  of  the 
feet  and  toes  and  deftly  flexed  knees,  is  to  pre- 
cipitate ''  flat-foot  "  almost  inevitably.  And 
here  lies  the  cause  of  discomfort  and  disaster 
arising  from  an  unguarded  change  to  gym- 
nasium shoes,  ballet  shoes,  tennis  shoes,  and 
heelless  slippers  or  house  shoes.  Such  change 
must  be  made  with  careful  readjustment  of 

179 


SEJje  Jttafeing  of  J^ersonalits 

one's  habits  of  motion  in  standing  and  walk- 
ing, and  even  then  is  not  unlikely  to  be  at- 
tended with  discomfort  at  first,  as  different 
and  comparatively  unused  sets  of  muscles  are 
brought  into  play.  Of  course,  after  damage 
has  been  done,  the  case  is  complicated,  and 
the  sufferer  may  need  a  surgeon's  care. 

The  whole  question  of  the  beauty  of  the 
foot  and  the  best  use  of  the  best  shoes  is  insep- 
arably bound  up  with  the  question  of  good 
walking  and  good  carriage  of  the  body,  and 
consequently  also  with  questions  of  health,  of 
efficiency,  of  happiness  for  ourselves  and  use- 
fulness to  the  world.  It  involves,  too,  the  con- 
sideration of  the  subtle  reflex  influence  of 
motion  on  the  spirit  and  temper,  on  the  tem- 
perament and  mental  attitude  of  the  indi- 
vidual. A  perfect  foot  is  the  beginning  of 
beauty,  as  a  fine  cast  of  the  head  is  its  crown- 
ing attribute.  Neither  the  vestal  virgins  nor 
the  nautch-girls  could  ever  have  uplifted  the 
spirit  or  charmed  the  senses,  if  their  feet  had 
been  hampered  and   inadequate.     Goddesses 

i8o 


m^nts  of  tiie  iFoot 

would  lose  their  majesty  and  angels  their  per- 
fection, if  anything  should  mar  the  beauty  of 
their  feet. 

The  tender  curve  and  sensitive  mobility  of 
the  sole  of  a  beautiful  foot  is  one  of  nature's 
subtlest  beauties.  A  strong,  soft,  flexible 
rolling  tread  on  the  balls  of  the  feet,  letting 
them  spread  and  contract  freely  with  each 
step,  keeping  the  heels  almost  wholly  off  the 
ground,  and  never  allowing  the  weight  of  the 
body  to  fall  back  on  the  heels  and  spinal  col- 
umn, is  the  natural  process  for  developing 
fine,  straight  feet,  a  genuine  instep  and  calf 
of  the  leg,  a  neat  ankle,  and  curves  of  power 
and  spirit  not  only  through  the  foot  but 
throughout  the  whole  body.  This  was  the 
breeding  that  made  shapely  feet  and  legs  to 
match  the  loveliest  bodies  of  bygone  times 
and  gave  us  our  traditions  of  the  well-bred 
foot.  A  spontaneous,  easy  elegance  in  the 
carriage  of  the  head  depends  upon  elegance 
in  the  development  and  use  of  the  feet.  The 
absence  of  many  wrinkles,  the  unanxious  ease 

i8i 


of  the  whole  body,  our  perfection  of  physical 
and  personal  development,  our  utmost  useful- 
ness and  health,  our  entire  symmetry  and 
poise  and  vigour,  depend  largely  upon  our 
development  and  use  of  our  feet.  Nothing 
can  exist  or  happen  anywhere  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  body  that  is  not  in- 
fluenced by  the  condition  and  use  of  the  foot. 
The  relation  of  the  nervous  system  to  the  foot 
is  often  sorely  realized.  Few  people  have 
escaped  experiencing  the  overwhelming  de- 
moralization, mental  and  spiritual  as  well  as 
physical,  that  results  from  a  hurting  foot. 

Speaking  of  Japanese  workmen,  Lafcadio 
Hearn  says,  ^'  Nature  has  given  him  perfect 
feet  that  can  spring  him  over  fifty  miles  a 
day  without  pain;  a  stomach  whose  chemistry 
can  extract  ample  nourishment  from  food  on 
which  no  European  could  live;  and  a  con- 
stitution that  scorns  heat,  cold,  and  damp 
alike,  because  still  unimpaired  by  unhealthy 
clothing,  by  superfluous  comforts,  by  the 
habit   of   seeking  warmth    from   grates   and 

182 


mauts  of  ttie  iFoot 

stoves,  and  by  the  habit  of  wearing  leather 
shoes. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  character  of  our 
footgear  signifies  more  than  is  commonly  sup- 
posed. The  footgear  represents  in  itself  a 
check  upon  individual  freedom.  It  signifies 
this  even  in  costliness;  but  in  form  it  signifies 
infinitely  more.  It  has  distorted  the  Western 
foot  out  of  the  original  shape,  and  rendered 
it  incapable  of  the  work  for  which  it  was 
evolved.  The  physical  results  are  not  limited 
to  the  foot.  Whatever  acts  as  a  check,  di- 
rectly or  indirectly,  upon  the  organs  of  loco- 
motion must  extend  its  effects  to  the  whole 
physical  constitution.  Does  the  evil  stop  even 
there?  Perhaps  we  submit  to  conventions  the 
most  absurd  of  any  existing  in  any  civiliza- 
tion because  we  have  too  long  submitted  to 
the  tyranny  of  shoemakers.  There  may  be 
defects  in  our  politics,  in  our  social  ethics,  in 
our  religious  system,  more  or  less  related  to 
the  habit  of  wearing  leather  shoes.  Submis- 
sion to  the  cramping  of  the  body  must  cer- 

183 


tainly   aid   in   developing  submission   to   the 
cramping  of  the  mind." 

After  experimenting  with  footwear  for 
many  years,  experience  leaves  one  eager  to 
impart  this  grain  of  knowledge,  —  that  no 
material  comfort  can  equal  the  luxury  of  a 
well-fitting,  broad-toed,  flexible,  heelless  shoe. 
Of  course,  the  secret  is  that  a  good  barefoot 
shoe  enables  us  to  walk  naturally  and  to  find 
in  simple  natural  exercises  not  only  health, 
but  sanity  and  happiness  as  well.  If  I  were 
a  fairy  and  asked  to  bestow  one  gift  on  the 
man  and  woman  of  the  twentieth  century,  I 
would  give  them  each  a  pair  of  model  shoes. 


184 


TJKJfK 

ffilje  art  of  Walking 


The  delightful  art  of  walking,  the  happy 
vagabondage  which  Stevenson  and  Whitman 
praised  so  well,  the  most  innocent  of  pastimes, 
the  simplest  of  exercises,  is  in  danger  of  fall- 
ing into  disuse  in  our  multiplicity  of  modern 
sports.  Tennis,  golf,  bicycling,  riding,  yacht- 
ing, motoring,  all  call  us  in  their  different 
ways  in  the  pursuit  of  diversion  or  health, 
until  the  love  of  the  open  foot-road  is  become 
almost  old-fashioned.  Yet  there  they  lie,  all 
the  highways  and  paths  and  trails  running 
out  from  before  our  very  feet  to  overlace  the 
earth,  to  carry  us  whither  we  will,  with  all 
their  old  allurement  of  the  golden  age  of  gip- 
sydom  before  steam  carriages  were  invented 

i8S 


2CJie  JHaftfnfl  of  Ji^tvuon^lxts 

or  electricity  discovered.  The  art  of  walking 
may  be  temporarily  outrivalled,  but  it  cannot 
be  lightly  neglected,  and  the  wise  will  always 
hold  it  in  high  esteem,  —  so  primary  a  benefit 
is  it,  and  so  essential  to  all  womanly  elegance 
and  manly  dignity. 

An  idea  that  shall  help  us  to  walk  well 
is  to  think  of  the  walk  as  a  moderated  run 
rather  than  to  think  of  the  run  as  a  modifica- 
tion of  the  walk.  Fancy  the  Flying  Mercury 
changing  feet,  and  you  have  an  ideal  run. 
Fancy  that  run  slackened  in  speed,  and  you 
have  a  godlike  walk. 

The  run  is,  of  course,  the  natural  human 
gait  whenever  speed  is  required;  and  as  the 
rate  of  speed  is  lowered,  it  passes  by  a  gradual 
transition  into  the  normal  walk.  The  run  is 
our  legitimate  highest  form  of  locomotion, 
developed  under  the  keen  stress  of  the  exi- 
gencies of  life;  and  as  such  it  represents  our 
utmost  efficiency  of  motion,  and  exhibits  the 
most  graceful  economy  of  strength  in  action. 
As  we  watch  it  in  children  and  in  the  games 

i86 


2CJ|t  art  of  WiuWina 

of  our  athletic  youth,  the  run  lends  a  touch 
of  glamour  and  additional  charm  to  the 
beauty  of  the  figure,  altogether  lacking  in  our 
starched  and  restricted  demeanour;  it  carries 
us  back  to  the  days  of  freedom  and  sincerity. 
Our  almost  complete  disuse  of  the  run  in  civi- 
lization was  inevitable,  but  none  the  less  has 
surely  been  detrimental  to  the  quality  of  our 
motion  in  general  and  to  our  walk  in  partic- 
ular. As  the  ease  and  security  of  life  in- 
creased, we  became  a  race  of  walkers;  and 
now  as  the  means  of  transit  are  multiplied, 
we  walk  less  and  less.  As  a  consequence  of 
this  decreased  necessity  for  muscular  effort, 
we  have  lost  much  of  the  spring  and  endur- 
ance which  belong  to  us  by  natural  right. 
There  is  the  greater  need,  therefore,  that  such 
walking  as  we  do  should  be  done  thoroughly 
well,  since  grace  and  beauty  are  only  the  fine 
flowers  of  motion  and  strength. 

The  mechanics  of  walking,  like  the  science 
underlying  any  art,  may  not  be  as  interesting 
as  the  art  itself;   yet  it  is  none  the  less  neces- 

187 


sary,  if  we  would  practise  the  art  correctly. 
The  first  requisite  of  good  walking  is  a  good 
poise.  If  the  body  is  well  poised  at  each  point 
of  its  motion,  the  motion  itself  must  be  good. 
The  process  of  walking,  w^hich  has  been  de- 
scribed as  a  series  of  falls,  is,  to  be  somewhat 
more  accurate,  a  series  of  falls  and  recover- 
ies, so  insensibly  merged  that  there  is  no  say- 
ing where  the  fall  ends  and  the  recovery  be- 
gins. In  walking  we  are  in  a  continuous 
state  of  changing  equilibrium.  We  pass 
gradually  from  one  position  to  another,  yet 
should  never  be  out  of  poise.  We  are  play- 
ing with  gravity.  The  instant  we  lose  poise 
our  step  becomes  a  stumble,  and  we  ourselves 
the  sport  of  gravity,  no  longer  its  self-con- 
trolled masters.  A  good  walker  spins  the 
earth  deftly  beneath  his  feet,  as  an  acrobat 
in  a  circus  spins  a  barrel  or  a  painted  ball. 

This  simile  suggests  something  of  the  light- 
ness and  ecstasy  to  be  acquired  in  walking, 
and  gives  us  an  imaginary  guide  for  our  mo- 
tion so  far  as  the  feet  are  concerned.     For 

1 88 


^ftt  art  of  WLuimna 

our  other  requisite  of  good  walking,  a  proper 
carriage  of  the  chest,  a  suggestion  may  be 
gained  by  balancing  a  stout  pole  about  eight 
or  ten  feet  long  vertically  from  the  chest.  Of 
course  an  imaginary  pole  will  do  quite  as  well 
as  a  real  one,  if  not  better,  for  it  will  not  in- 
terfere at  all  with  the  carriage  of  the  head. 
Between  these  two  attempts  —  the  endeavour 
to  keep  the  chest  well  lifted  and  carried  for- 
ward, and  the  endeavour  to  keep  the  earth 
as  far  below  us  as  possible  —  lies  the  achieve- 
ment of  good  walking.  Between  these  tw^o 
diverse  extremes  we  shall  master  that  ease  and 
strength  of  action  which  is  so  fascinating  in 
all  good  motion,  and  attain  a  natural  dignity 
of  mien  which  no  affectation  can  bestow. 

Instruction  in  the  exact  technique  of  walk- 
ing might  be  epitomized  as  follows:  —  From 
a  normal  standing  position,  with  the  greater 
part  of  the  weight  on  one  foot  (the  left,  for 
example),  slightly  in  advance  of  the  right, 
lift  the  body  gently  on  the  balls  of  the  feet 
and  let  it  sway  forward.    As  it  sways  out  of 

189 


2Cfie  JHaftltifl  of  ^tvnonulits 

balance,  the  right  leg  will  instinctively  come 
forward  to  save  it  from  falling.  If  this  right 
leg  be  allowed  to  swing  freely  of  its  own 
weight,  like  a  rope,  sagging  at  the  knee  and 
slack  at  the  ankle,  and  if  at  the  same  time  the 
body  be  lifted  high  on  the  ball  of  the  left  foot, 
the  right  foot  (the  trailing  end  of  the  rope) 
will  clear  the  ground  as  it  swings  past  the 
left;  and  the  first  part  of  the  foot  to  touch  the 
ground  in  this  first  step  will  be,  not  the  heel 
of  the  foot,  but  the  ball,  —  the  tip  of  the  rope. 
The  moment  the  ball  of  the  right  foot  touches 
the  ground,  it  resists,  and  receiving  the  weight 
of  the  body  gently,  with  softly  flexed  knee, 
lowers  it  until  the  heel  also  touches  the 
ground  lightly,  and  the  first  step  has  been 
taken. 

Meanwhile  the  forward  impetus  of  the 
body  has  not  been  retarded,  and  the  left  leg 
is  now  swinging  forward  in  its  turn.  The  left 
foot  must  have  room  to  swing  clear  of  the 
ground;  and,  to  meet  that  necessity,  the  body, 
which  has  just  been  lowered  by  the  strong 

190 


muscles  of  the  right  leg  and  foot,  must  imme- 
diately be  lifted  again  by  those  same  muscles. 
The  left  leg  swings  to  the  front;  the  chang- 
ing weight  is  again  caught  and  lowered  on  the 
left  foot;  the  second  step  has  been  taken,  and 
the  walk  is  under  way. 

If  this  rough  analysis  seems  to  overempha- 
size one  or  two  crucial  points  in  the  walk, 
such  as  a  greater  use  of  the  ankle  joint  and 
of  the  powerful  lifting  muscles  of  the  calf 
of  the  leg  and  ball  of  the  foot  than  we  are 
accustomed  to,  it  should  be  said  that  it  is 
hardly  possible  to  lay  too  much  stress  on  the 
importance  of  these  essentials.  It  is  just  in 
them  that  we  generally  fall  short.  To  walk 
well,  —  indeed,  to  move  well  at  all,  —  we 
need  not  only  strength  but  strength  well  or- 
dered; and  nowhere  is  our  locomotion  so 
faulty  and  inefficient  as  in  our  use  of  the  leg, 
the  ankle  and  the  foot. 

Analysis  makes  clear  the  important  part 
played  by  the  strong,  sensitive,  flexible  ball 
of  the  foot  and  toes,  which  spread  and  almost 

191 


8Ctie  JHaftfnfl  of  J^ersonalitff 

grasp  the  earth  as  they  exercise  their  exqui- 
site control  of  balance  and  support, — a  power 
which  can  never  be  exercised  at  all  in  narrow 
shoes.  It  also  ensures  the  straight  tread  of 
the  Indian;  since,  when  the  foot  is  swung  for- 
ward freely  and  loosely  in  the  direction  in 
which  we  are  going,  it  falls  naturally  parallel 
to  our  line  of  progress.  The  turned-out  toe 
is  insisted  upon  by  dancing  masters  rightly 
enough,  in  consideration  of  an  audience  in 
front,  to  whom  profile  contours  are  more 
pleasing  than  straight  lines,  and  because  in 
dancing  the  body  is  constantly  moving  from 
side  to  side,  and  the  leading  foot  should  point 
in  the  direction  in  which  the  motion  is  to  take 
place.  The  old  military  standing  position, 
^'  heels  together  and  toes  out,"  which  threw 
the  weight  upon  the  heels,  was  long  permitted 
by  instructors  in  gymnastics  in  class  drill,  for 
the  purpose  of  facilitating  diversity  of  exer- 
cise. In  the  normal  walk,  however,  wherein 
we  wish  to  go  straight  ahead,  the  turning  out 
of  the  toes  is  an  anomaly  and  should  never  be 

192 


of 


y 


srtie  art  of  WLalUina 

taught.  It  ought  to  be  clearly  understood 
and  carefully  borne  in  mind  that  the  standing 
position  of  the  dancing-school  is  to  be  used 
only  when  specifically  required,  and  that 
when  it  becomes  habitual  it  leads  to  bad  gen- 
eral poise,  an  awkward  walk,  and  injurious 
physical  results.  That  a  wrong  method  of 
standing  should  be  inculcated  in  schools  of 
physical  culture,  simply'  to  facilitate  certain 
drill  exercises,  is  unwarrantable,  inasmuch  as 
the  establishing  of  good  habits  of  general  mo- 
tion is  more  important  than  the  artificial  in- 
tricacies of  any  diverting  or  exhibitionary 
drill.  If  a  drill  necessitates  bad  poise  at  any 
time,  then  it  is  a  bad  drill  and  should  be 
abandoned. 

It  will  be  noticed,  also,  that  our  descrip- 
tion of  ideal  walking  does  not  fit  the  require- 
ments of  the  heel-and-toe  walk  as  practised 
by  athletes.  That  particular  gait  is  an  arti- 
ficial one,  and  has  been  adopted  for  a  specific 
reason.  The  natural  walk,  as  has  been  said, 
is  only  a  modified  run,  and  lapses  into  the 

193 


run  so  gradually  that  the  exact  point  of  dif- 
ference is  not  easily  perceptible.  The  patent 
difference  between  a  walk  and  a  run  is  this, 
of  course,  that  in  the  walk  both  feet  are  never 
oE  the  ground  at  the  same  time.  In  order  to 
render  this  difference  perfectly  plain  and  un- 
questionable in  contests,  athletes  have  re- 
quired the  heel-and-toe  step,  wherein  the  heel 
strikes  the  ground  first.  With  this  gait  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  get  sufficient  spring  to 
lift  both  feet  from  the  ground  at  the  same 
time,  and  so  the  possibility  of  the  walker 
breaking  into  a  run  is  almost  nil.  The  tax 
on  him,  however,  is  something  terrific.  He 
hunches  along,  thumping  on  his  heels,  and 
almost  dislocating  his  entire  anatomy  at  every 
step.  The  racking  strain  to  the  whole  system 
from  such  an  abnormal  locomotion  is  an  in- 
tolerable violence  to  nature.  Nature  fitted  us 
to  run  when  we  are  in  a  hurry;  and  to  push 
the  slower  gait  quite  beyond  the  limits  of  its 
intended  use  is  to  sin  against  the  laws  of  na- 
ture and  common  sense.    Like  any  other  vio- 

194 


ffiDe  art  of  Wi^lUina 

lence,  it  can  only  be  injurious  and  wasteful  of 
energy;  and  being  so  harmful,  it  cannot  but 
be  ungraceful.  Nothing  is  more  ungainly 
and  less  pleasant  to  watch  than  a  heel-and-toe 
contest.  Yet  this  discordant  method  of  walk- 
ing, only  less  furious  in  speed,  is  the  one  we 
use  every  day,  almost  without  exception.  It 
is  a  slovenly  habit,  only  too  readily  acquired 
through  muscular  inefficiency,  disordering 
footgear,  or  heedless  imitation  or  laziness. 

Our  fashions  prescribe  one  ridiculous  man- 
ner of  walking  and  then  another  year  after 
year,  but  almost  no  one  thinks  it  worth  while 
to  learn  to  walk  normally.  There  can  be  no 
uniform  fashion  of  good  walking.  The  nor- 
mal walk  is  not  a  matter  of  caprice,  but  of 
art;  it  lends  itself  to  the  infinite  varieties  of 
character,  and  becomes  in  each  instance  ex- 
pressive of  the  individual;  so  that  we  recog- 
nize and  even  interpret  a  man  by  his  gait  as 
easily  as  by  his  voice.  Both  are  unmistakably 
characteristic  of  him  and  could  belong  to  no 
one  else.     A  friend  is  known  by  his  step  be- 

195 


fore  he  crosses  the  threshold.  Words  may  be 
marshalled  and  pressed  into  the  service  of 
falsehood,  and  may  deceive  the  unwary;  but 
our  tones  and  motions  are  more  instinctive, 
less  deliberate,  and  will  betray  us  in  spite  of 
ourselves  to  any  keen  observer.  No  two 
voices  are  alike,  nor  any  two  walks,  but  every 
one  in  his  own  person  —  in  bearing,  demean- 
our, speech,  gesture  and  motion  —  is  the  man- 
ifestation of  a  distinct  personality  and  cannot 
be  identical  with  another.  To  try  to  assume^ 
therefore,  any  capricious  mode  of  speech  or 
any  affected  fashion  of  walking  is  fruitless; 
it  is  easier  to  change  the  part  which  destiny 
has  set  us  to  play  than  to  conceal  the  individ- 
ual characteristics  she  has  given  us  to  play 
with. 

On  the  stage,  along  Fifth  Avenue,  in  our 
drawing-rooms,  at  our  summer  resorts,  what 
innumerable  examples  of  ugly  walking  and 
ungainly  carriage  one  sees!  Women  who 
flop,  and  wiggle,  and  hump,  and  mince,  and 
lope,   and   stride,   and   hardly  ever  one  who 

196 


8CJ|e  art  of  WLalUina 

walks  like  an  immortal  human  being!  One 
sees  well-bred  girls  stumping  along  a  country 
road  in  thick-soled  men's  shoes,  affecting  a 
so-called  manly  stride,  because  they  fancy  it 
seems  athletic,  and  because  it  is  considered 
"  smart "  to  be  mannish.  Even  so,  they  are 
far  from  manliness;  they  imitate  the  gross, 
uncultivated  motion  which  bespeaks  a  low 
type  of  physicality  characteristic  of  the  pugi- 
list and  the  roustabout;  and  of  course  they 
only  succeed  in  looking  ridiculous.  Though 
they  may  be  pretty  girls,  their  affectation  of 
a  manner  and  motion  not  native  in  them  — 
not  characteristic  and  unconscious  and  ex- 
pressive of  themselves  —  makes  them  ludi- 
crous. It  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  man  in  order 
to  be  strong  and  healthy;  and  it  is  impossible 
to  be  graceful  and  affected  at  the  same  time. 

In  justice,  it  ought  to  be  added  that  many 
men  make  the  same  mistake  of  affecting  a 
walk  that  does  not  belong  to  them.  It  is,  per- 
haps, one  of  the  lesser  follies  of  an  imitative 
youth,  when  we  long  to  play  a  part  in  the 

197 


2ribe  iWafeinfl  of  ^ersonalitj? 

world,  and  must  ape  this  or  that  ideal  of  our 
busy  imagination.    But,  as  Browning  says, — 

**  Best  be  yourself,  imperial,  plain  and  true.'* 

And  no  walk  can  be  normal  or  beautiful 
which  does  not  belong  distinctively  to  its  user, 
which  is  not  just  as  inseparably  his  own  or  her 
own  as  the  expression  of  the  eyes.  The  in- 
finite and  distinguishing  varieties  of  walk  de- 
pend on  the  infinitely  varied  proportions  of 
length  of  limb  and  strength  of  muscle  and 
quality  of  energy  in  different  persons. 

Many  a  capable  actor  fails  of  his  efiPect  by 
not  knowing  the  inalienable  meaning  of  mo- 
tion and  the  significance  of  a  walk.  Wishing 
to  impress  us  with  a  sense  of  dignity,  he  often 
comes  strutting  and  stamping  on  high  heels, 
quite  forgetting  that  true  dignity  is  easy,  re- 
poseful, assured,  and  elastic,  not  assertive  nor 
unyielding;  and  that  the  jarring  thump  of 
his  heel-hitting  tread  is  enough  to  shatter  any 
possible  illusion  of  majesty  or  elegance.  Real 
majesty  of  bearing  is  not  to  be  assumed  easily. 

198 


sri^e  art  of  S2la^litefn0 

It  appears  only  as  the  cloak  and  habit  of  true 
majesty  of  character,  — •  thorough  worth  and 
nobility  of  heart. 

A  distinguished  American  critic,  who  wit- 
nessed the  coronation  ceremony  at  Westmin- 
ster, has  declared  that  Queen  Alexandra  in 
that  assemblage  of  younger  and  more  daz- 
zling beauties,  held  an  unquestionable  su- 
premacy of  royal  elegance  and  grandeur  by 
her  every  movement  of  unassuming,  unaf- 
fected dignity.  It  was  said  of  Adelaide  Neil- 
son  that  to  see  her  walk  was  like  listening  to 
exquisite  music,  so  well  rhythmed  and  elo- 
quent was  her  motion.  Madame  Duse's  great- 
est preeminence  as  an  artist  is  her  genius  of 
mobility,  her  wonderful  capacity  for  expres- 
sion through  motion  and  pose.  Majestic  mo- 
tion was  never  more  wonderfully  exemplified 
than  in  Salvini's  walk  in  the  character  of 
Othello.  Though  he  played  the  part  in  bare 
feet,  his  tread  was  impressive  with  a  dignity 
that  no  high-heeled  boot  would  permit.  It 
was  simply  an  untrammelled  expression  or 

199 


8ri)e  JHaftfnfl  of  J^ersonalitff 

revelation  of  the  dignity  of  character  of 
which  the  man  himself  was  capable;  and 
that  capacity,  that  quality  of  innate  dignity, 
required  only  natural  transmission,  transla- 
tion from  feeling  into  motion,  to  give  it  as- 
tounding power.  The  great  actor  must  be 
equally  a  master  of  good  motion  and  of 
speech,  since  motion  is  quite  as  important  a 
medium  of  expression  as  voice. 

To  ensure  good  normal  walking  the  free- 
dom of  the  foot  is  the  first  essential,  but  no 
less  essential  is  the  freedom  of  the  entire 
body;  for  walking  brings  every  muscle  into 
play,  and  the  whole  torso  and  head  have  to 
be  controlled  and  mobilized  every  moment 
through  the  strong  muscles  of  the  neck  and 
trunk.  This  needs  freedom  of  the  waist  and 
throat,  as  well  as  of  the  foot  and  ankle;  and 
when  we  realize  the  values  of  breathing  and 
the  increased  use  of  the  lungs  and  diaphragm 
necessitated  by  walking,  the  need  for  this  free- 
dom becomes  imperative.  The  spread  of  cul- 
tivated taste  in  matters  of  art  has  shown  us 


J!Ciie  art  of  23Zllalltein0 

how  unbeautiful  the  deformed  waist  and 
pointed  foot  really  are,  in  themselves  and  in 
their  efifects  upon  poise  and  personal  expres- 
sion, —  how  pitiably  deficient  compared  with 
the  superb  strength  of  the  Winged  Victory 
or  the  ideal  sufficiency  of  the  Venus  of  Melos. 
How  magnificent  the  Victory  is  in  her  loose- 
girdled  bearing,  seeming  almost  to  tread  on 
air,  —  the  very  embodiment  of  the  soul  of 
walking  arrested  for  an  age-long  instant  in 
mid-glory! 

How  shall  we  regain  such  power  and  per- 
fection of  grace  and  beauty?  How  attain 
that  fine-poised  loveliness  of  body  which  the 
old  Greeks  left  recorded  for  us  in  their 
sculpture  as  standard  of  physical  excellence? 
Surely  not  by  the  use  of  corsets  and  cosmetics, 
but  perhaps  by  cultivating  as  they  did  all  the 
bodily  faculties  in  a  life  including  free  mus- 
cular activity  and  physical  art.  The  Greeks 
were  the  finest  exponents  of  physical  culture, 
because  they  saw  its  fundamental  relation  to 
total  culture,  and  held  it  in  the  honour  which 

20 1 


2C|)e  MuUina  of  ^tvuonalits 

is  its  due.  They  respected  physical  beauty 
just  as  instinctively  as  all  natural  men  and 
women  respect  it.  They  had  not  been  inocu- 
lated with  that  false  and  shameful  asceticism 
which  sprang  up  in  the  Dark  Ages  and  cast 
its  blight  over  the  sacred  natural  joy  of  life. 
They  knew  well  the  inherent  dependence  of 
beauty  of  form  upon  loveliness  of  spirit,  and 
cultivated  each  with  assiduous  care.  Their 
love  of  beauty  was  only  another  phase  of  their 
eager  and  undarkened  love  of  truth.  Their 
devotion  to  athletics  sprang  consistently  from 
their  feeling  for  art,  and  their  eminence  in 
art  in  turn  was  fostered  and  enriched  by  that 
very  untrammelled  devotion. 

It  will  be  so  in  our  own  case.  We  shall 
grow  gradually  nearer  perfection  of  physical 
strength  and  beauty,  as  we  live  more  and  more 
nearly  in  accordance  with  our  best  instincts, 
putting  away  shams,  discarding  prejudices, 
and  throwing  off  the  tyranny  of  whatever  im- 
positions are  too  rigid  and  hampering  for  fine 
personal  development.    No  small  part  of  this 

202 


JTtie  art  of  2imalft(nfl 

just,  profitable  and  very  becoming  liberation 
of  the  spirit,  this  delightful  enhancement  of 
personality,  will  come  to  us  through  securing 
the  utmost  perfection  and  service  of  the  sim- 
ple and  practicable  art  of  good  walking. 


203 


When  David  danced  before  the  Lord  he 
was  making  use  of  one  of  the  most  primitive 
methods  for  giving  vent  to  the  joyous  energy 
that  was  in  him.  That  natural  expression  of 
vigorous  gladness  was  so  common  that  it 
could  not  but  find  a  place  in  all  early  cere- 
monials and  religious  rites.  When  Salome 
danced  before  Herod  at  his  birthday  feast, 
her  triumph  was  tribute  to  the  facile  power 
of  her  art. 

Though  we  have  abandoned  the  use  of 
dancing  in  our  sober,  more  intellectual  relig- 
ion, the  tendency  to  express  heights  of  feeling 
in  rhythmic  motion  shows  itself  in  almost  any 
perfervid  religious  revival  among  simple  and 

204 


Bantina  as  a  Jftm  art 

unrestrained  people.  And  a  resort  to  patting 
and  drums,  to  kneeling  and  bowing  and  sing- 
ing as  a  means  of  freeing  the  spirit  and  an 
elevation  toward  holiness,  is  by  no  means  ex- 
tinct. We  still  make  use  of  rhythm  for  the 
inducement  of  mood,  though  we  fail  to  give 
it  scientific  recognition  or  to  regulate  it  as  a 
legitimate  aid. 

That  an  art  so  potent  and  subtle  as  dancing 
should  often  have  been  turned  to  ill  account 
was  to  have  been  expected,  yet  that  was  hardly 
a  sufficient  reason  for  condemning  it  without 
reserve  and  banishing  it  to  the  limbo  of  the 
forbidden.  So  strong  and  delicate  an  instru- 
ment for  influencing  personality  and  arousing 
emotion  ought  rather  to  be  treated  with  tena- 
cious respect  and  made  the  object  of  a  wise 
and  fostering  care.  We  do  not  ban  electricity 
because  it  is  dangerous,  nor  shun  the  service 
of  fire  because  it  is  terrible  and  destructive 
when  unmastered.  So  with  the  arts;  those 
great  and  primordial  manifestations  of  psy- 
chic energy  are  to  be  guarded,  indeed,  with 

205 


every  wise  precaution,  but  they  are  none  the 
less  to  be  used  most  gratefully  for  forwarding 
and  facilitating  the  purposes  of  human  life 
in  its  struggle  toward  happiness  and  wisdom. 
Like  the  elements  of  outward  nature,  they  are 
the  Titanic  ministers  of  man,  rendering  in- 
calculable aid  when  properly  employed,  and 
equally  incalculable  harm  when  left  to  op- 
erate in  a  wayward  and  unregulated  manner. 
To  make  them  outcasts  from  our  world  of 
activity  is  mere  childish  petulance;  to  the 
mature  and  sane  mind  they  must  always  seem 
worthy  not  only  of  use  but  of  study  and  hon- 
our. While  ever  alive  to  their  baleful  possi- 
bilities, we  should  still  rejoice  without  stint 
in  the  exercise  of  their  legitimate  powers,  and 
cherish  them  with  loving  reverence.  To  do 
this  is  only  to  make  the  most  of  our  native 
endowments,  —  the  resources  of  the  great  un- 
known universe  of  being  from  which  we  are 
sprung.  To  neglect  it  is  surely  to  be  foolish 
and  cowardly  and  inept  in  dealing  with  the 
vital  forces  of  creation  which  have  been  given 

206 


into  our  hands.  The  artist  in  life  need  feel 
no  panic  in  the  presence  of  the  gods;  for 
though  it  becomes  him  to  go  modestly  and 
without  presumption,  he  is  after  all  in  the 
house  of  his  kindred,  and  while  the  lords  of 
being  have  little  liking  for  undue  assurance, 
they  have  less  for  cringing  timidity. 

The  reinstating  of  dancing  in  its  rightful 
place  among  the  liberal  and  humanizing  arts 
is  greatly  to  be  desired,  and  any  tendency  in 
that  direction  is  most  welcome.  The  prac- 
tice of  the  art  as  developed  in  the  modern  bal- 
let is  admirable  so  far  as  it  goes;  its  semi-pop- 
ularity proves  how  universal  and  ineradicable 
our  love  of  expressive  motion  is,  how  eagerly 
we  respond  to  its  appeal,  and  how  gladly  we 
encourage  it  to  beautiful  achievement,  even 
when  it  dwindles  to  bleak  artificiality  and 
conventionalization.  But  the  modern  ballet 
is  only  a  stiffened  relic  of  the  art  of  dancing 
compared  to  what  may  be  accomplished  in 
reviving  it  as  a  popular  amusement  and  re- 
storing it  to  its  lawful  position  of  honour  and 

207 


enthusiastic  pride  in  people's  hearts  as  one 
of  their  loveliest  and  most  salutary  pleas- 
ures. 

Motion  as  an  art  includes  the  walk,  but  it 
only  reaches  its  highest  achievement  in  dan- 
cing. Walking  is  primarily  a  utilitarian  pro- 
cedure, with  other  aims  and  purposes  beside 
personal  expression;  its  expressive  intent  is 
secondary.  Dancing,  on  the  contrary,  is 
quite  superfluous  from  the  utilitarian  point  of 
view;  it  has  no  practical  service  in  view;  its 
sole  purpose  is  the  expression  of  feeling.  In 
the  first  instance,  it  is  the  mere  physical  in- 
stinctive manifestation  of  pleasure,  a  mute 
but  unmistakable  indication  of  the  gladness 
of  life.  Later,  it  becomes  more  complex,  co- 
herent, articulate  and  intelligible;  it  serves 
not  only  as  a  vent  for  an  impulsive  ebullition 
of  animal  spirits,  but  as  an  avenue  for  the 
definite  expression  of  varied  emotions,  —  it 
serves  as  a  means  to  convey  their  infection  and 
fascination  to  others;  and  it  takes  its  appro- 
priate place  among  the  fine  arts  as  one  of  the 

208 


most  charming  and  winsome  dialects  in  the 
language  of  ecstasy. 

The  artistic  dancer  uses  bodily  motion  as  a 
poet  uses  words,  as  a  musician  uses  tones,  as  a 
painter  uses  colours,  —  as  an  appeal  not  so 
much  to  our  reason  as  to  our  sense  and  spirit, 
—  as  a  means  of  enlivening  and  gladdening 
our  nature,  making  us  more  sensitive  to 
beauty,  more  spontaneous  in  glad  emotion, 
more  sane  and  balanced  in  general  well-be- 
ing. This  service  of  harmonizing  us  with 
ourselves,  freeing  us  from  irritation  and  fa- 
tigue and  discordant  vexation,  is  what  art 
always  does  for  us,  and  what  dancing  does 
most  wholesomely  when  properly  cultivated. 
As  it  shares  with  the  other  arts  the  right  to  be 
called  liberal  and  fine,  it  deserves  an  equally 
important  place  in  our  education,  our  social 
life,  our  serious  regard. 

That  dancing  is  the  legitimate  sister  of 
Music  and  Poetry  is  indisputable.  Her  birth- 
right is  not  less  authentic  than  theirs,  nor  her 
origin  less  divine,  while  the  realm  of  her  in- 

209 


heritance  lies  more  within  the  enjoyment  of 
aU.  If  not  the  wisest  of  the  immortal  nine, 
she  is  the  gayest,  most  human,  debonair,  and 
alluring.  To  the  sorceries  of  her  rhythmic 
motion,  to  the  silent  but  inescapable  witch- 
eries of  her  melting  curves,  to  the  languid  or 
impassioned  glamour  that  she  weaves,  every 
son  of  man  is  responsive.  She  alone  shares 
with  her  twin-born  Music  the  power  to 
charm  the  wildest  heart,  and  foster  even  in 
the  rudest  mind  some  elements  of  civility. 
Poetry  may  enlarge  our  horizon,  making  us 
serene  and  wise;  architecture  may  remind  us 
of  the  spacious  nobility  and  order  of  the  uni- 
verse; painting  and  sculpture  may  help  us 
to  a  more  vivid  delight  in  the  colour  and 
form  and  loveliness  of  the  world;  and  acting 
may  stir  our  sympathy  with  its  mimic  follies 
and  woes;  but  dancing  is  preeminently  the 
preceptress  of  unmitigated  joy.  She  is  the 
epitome  of  happy  moments,  embodying  the 
innocent  abandon  of  our  unrestrained  rap- 
ture.     The   hours    sacred    to    her   are    those 

2IO 


which  are  free  from  care.  It  is  to  her  that  we 
instinctively  turn  when  the  soul  leaps  for 
gladness.  It  is  she  who  teaches  us  that  perfect 
fusion  of  sense  and  spirit,  without  which  no 
art  is  possible  and  no  life  is  fortunate.  She 
personifies  that  creative  rapture  which  was  in 
the  beginning,  when  the  morning  stars  sang 
together  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for 

joy- 
Terpsichore  is  not  only  the  Muse  of  dan- 
cing, but  the  goddess  of  all  motion.  She  pre- 
sides over  dancing  mote  and  whirling  leaf,  as 
well  as  over  the  jig  and  the  minuet.  The 
wheeling  hawk  hanging  on  balanced  wings 
above  some  dark  ravine,  the  fleet  innumerable 
droves  of  the  sea  that  glimmer  and  dart 
through  their  dusky  silent  firmament,  the 
clever  tumblers  in  the  circus,  the  happy  chil- 
dren in  the  street  keeping  time  to  the  hurdy- 
gurdy,  the  flying  thistle  seed,  the  drifting 
snow,  the  sand  that  travels  in  the  tide,  and  the 
recurring  planets  in  their  vast  career,  —  all 
are   biddable    devotees   of   her   cult,    paying 

211 


2CJie  iUa^ftiufl  of  petfiianaltts 

obedience  to  her  mighty  law,  whose  first  ob- 
ligation is  poise,  whose  final  realization  is 
freedom.  For  poise  is  ever  the  first  step 
toward  perfection,  as  significant  beauty  is  the 
last.  To  follow  her  commandments,  keeping 
proper  time,  proper  force  and  form,  in  every 
motion  we  create,  is  to  bring  ourselves,  body 
and  spirit  and  understanding,  hourly  into 
happier  accord  with  the  orderly  rhythms  of 
infinitude.  By  so  doing  we  lose  timidity  and 
strangeness  and  distrust  of  ourselves;  we 
learn  number,  proportion,  accuracy,  skill; 
and  we  become  assured,  gracious,  composed 
and  glad.  For  art  not  only  holds  the  keys 
to  the  realm  of  beauty,  but  to  the  realms  of 
knowledge  and  benevolence  as  well.  This 
is  the  truth  which  every  artist  divines,  and 
which  all  must  one  day  come  to  perceive. 

We  have  lost  much  of  our  respect  for  the 
pure  fine  art  of  dancing,  because  we  have  al- 
lowed It  to  become  debased  and  corrupted. 
When  the  Puritan  put  the  blight  of  his  anath- 
ema upon  it,  he  worked  an  almost  irrevocable 

212 


injury.  That  was  one  of  the  enormities  with 
which  his  soured  righteousness  afflicted  the 
earth,  one  of  the  ill  effects  of  his  narrow  big- 
otry which  we  are  left  to  undo.  Dancing 
might  be  put  out  of  countenance  for  a  time, 
but  no  fanaticism  could  irrevocably  over- 
throw a  genuine  deep  and  beneficent  human 
activity.  For  dancing  is  more  than  a  custom; 
it  is  not  confined  to  any  race  or  civilization; 
it  is  native  to  man;  it  answers  a  primary  need 
in  his  being,  —  an  ineradicable  necessity  for 
self-expression;  and  like  all  the  arts  it  has 
an  unquestionable,  almost  mysterious,  power 
to  influence  his  life.  It  must,  therefore,  take 
its  lawful  position  again  and  be  honoured  as 
it  was  in  other  times,  when  it  had  its  due  place 
in  sacred  ceremonial  as  well  as  in  daily  life. 
Not  that  we  need  revive  the  dance  as  a  relig- 
ious rite,  but  we  must  recognize,  just  as  the 
ancients  did,  just  as  the  savages  still  do,  the 
religious  element  inherent  in  motion,  and  its 
great  power  in  the  spiritual  realm.  Having, 
as  it  surely  has,  so  potential  an  influence  for 

213 


Eftt  JHalteino  of  Petf^onalitfi 

good  or  ill,  surely  we  are  bound  to  cultivate, 
liberate,  refine  and  ennoble  it,  in  order  that 
we  may  generally  practise  it,  and  may  be  cul- 
tivated, liberated,  refined  and  ennobled  by  it 
in  turn.  The  wise  and  loving  practice  of  an 
art  is  the  making  of  the  artist. 

As  dancing  comes  to  be  revived  among  us, 
restored  to  its  lawful  standing,  it  must  resume 
its  place  in  our  regard  as  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful of  pastimes  and  beneficial  of  recrea- 
tions. It  is  peculiarly  fitted  to  become  a  dis- 
tinctive national  amusement  with  Americans; 
its  grace  and  spirit  and  gaiety  should  supply 
a  most  becoming  exercise  for  our  buoyant  and 
volatile  exuberance.  We  might  have  dancing 
clubs,  just  as  we  now  have  tennis  clubs.  It 
might  become  as  great  a  distinction  to  excel 
as  a  dancer  as  it  is  now  to  excel  in  golf  or 
baseball. 

Dancing  as  an  exercise  is  more  desirable 
than  most  sports,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
it  is  an  art  as  well  as  an  exercise,  and  the  prac- 
tice of  it  cannot  but  be  more  helpful  and  sat- 

214 


lamina  as  u  Jfint  art 

isfying  than  the  pursuit  of  sports  which  are 
more  wholly  physical  in  their  requirements. 
Most  of  our  sports  and  playgrounds  demand 
accuracy,  skill,  bodily  vigour,  and  even  such 
temperamental  characteristics  as  patience  and 
good  nature;  they  cannot,  however,  afiford  an 
outlet  and  avenue  of  expression  for  the  higher 
personality,  nor  a  means  for  its  cultivation, 
such  as  the  arts  always  supply.  Athletics 
generally  leave  one  side  of  our  nature,  the 
spiritual  or  emotional  side,  entirely  unexer- 
cised. That  is  why  our  young  college  giants 
are  often  so  persistently  mere  huge  and  grace- 
less barbarians.  They  have  given  themselves 
with  commendable  diligence  to  the  cultivation 
of  thews  and  brawn,  daring  and  endurance, 
and  after  all  they  are  only  fit  for  the  arena; 
they  have  none  of  that  grace  and  nobility  of 
person  which  were  so  prized  by  the  Greeks, 
—  none  of  that  imposing  beauty  which  mo- 
tion, when  infused  with  the  aspirations  of  the 
spirit,  can  do  so  much  to  develop,  and  which 
uninspired  motion  can  so  easily  destroy. 

2IS 


It  seems  a  pity  that  so  beautiful  an  art,  so 
delightful  an  amusement,  should  be  relegated 
to  formal  dress  occasions  and  not  enjoyed 
much  more  frequently  on  the  spur  of  any 
happy  moment.  A  moderate  amount  of  good 
dancing  would  be  enough  to  keep  women  in 
health,  to  say  nothing  of  its  value  for  mental 
stimulation  and  balance.  And  there  can  be 
no  more  ideal  and  practically  salutary  exer- 
cise and  recreation  for  children  and  adults 
than  barefoot  dancing,  practised  in  unre- 
stricting  cleanly  clothing,  and  with  only  the 
simplest  sandal  protection  for  the  otherwise 
bare  feet,  —  a  pastime  in  which  no  pointed 
shoe,  no  hampering  garment,  increases  the 
difficulty  of  delightful  achievement,  nor  de- 
tracts from  its  benefit.  Such  dancing  gives 
bodily  and  emotional  freedom  and  nervous 
relief  as  well  as  stimulus  to  expression  within 
the  limits  of  orderly  beauty;  it  helps  to  legit- 
imate and  happy  expenditure  of  restless  ac- 
tivity; it  leads  to  lines  of  pleasurable  benefit 
energies  which  might  otherwise  be  either  un- 

216 


^untina  as  a  iFtne  art 

reasonably  repressed  or  vented  in  uncouth 
violence  and  discordant  noise. 

We  are  all  of  us  very  much  in  the  same 
boat,  and  often  are  not  much  wiser  than  chil- 
dren, nor  much  more  capable  of  helping  our- 
selves. We  think  the  heavens  are  unkind,  the 
tangle  of  life  impossible,  and  ourselves  in 
some  dire  extremity  of  woe  or  complication, 
when  in  reality  all  we  need  is  a  touch  of  in- 
spiring, harmonizing,  and  genuinely  recuper- 
ative exercise.  The  elation  to  be  gained  from 
freeing  our  manacled  bodies  and  refreshing 
them  with  some  beautiful  and  happy  motion 
is  almost  unbelievable. 

A  few  years  ago  in  New  York  a  number  of 
women  gave  a  Greek  dance  as  a  studio 
performance  for  the  entertainment  of  their 
friends.  In  the  freedom  of  the  classical  cos- 
tume, the  sandalled  foot  and  loosely  robed 
figure,  they  found  unexpected  opportunity  for 
natural  and  expressive  motion.  Their  under- 
taking became  a  delight  they  had  never 
dreamed  of,  revealing  to  them  the  ecstasy  of 

217 


free  and  spontaneous  mobility  which  belongs 
to  all  natural  things,  and  which  man  alone 
has  seen  fit  to  deform  and  cripple  and  de- 
fraud. Their  pleasure  was  something  more 
than  the  simple  physical  exhilaration  of  exer- 
cise; they  were  touched  with  the  divine  fire 
of  inspiration,  the  primal  creative  impulse 
which  all  artists  know.  This  was  their  mem- 
orable return  for  a  few  hours  given  to  the 
glad  art  of  dancing. 

More  recently  Miss  Duncan  and  Miss  St. 
Denis  have  demonstrated  the  imperishable 
interest  we  all  must  have  in  dancing  as  a  fine 
art.  Their  practical  success  in  barefoot  dan- 
cing should  be  a  substantial  encouragement 
to  the  culture  and  pursuit  of  the  art  for  its 
own  valuable  sake.  Their  performances  were 
open  to  criticism  naturally,  but  the  spirit  of 
their  undertaking  cannot  be  too  much  praised. 
Miss  St.  Denis  has  still  a  good  deal  to  learn 
about  the  meanings  of  motions  and  the  ma- 
king of  magic,  but  it  must  be  remembered  in 
her  favour  that  there  is  almost  no  one  from 

218 


TBuntlns  ^^  ^  iFtne  art 

whom  she  could  learn  these  secrets.  Her 
dancing  lacks  sorcery  and  charm  as  yet,  power 
to  fascinate  as  well  as  to  astonish ;  she  has  the 
cleverness  which  arouses  interest  and  makes 
one  admire,  but  not  the  touch  of  rapture 
which  would  carry  one  away,  as  all  competent 
art  should.  She  has,  in  other  words,  an  ex- 
cellent technique,  a  plastic  mobility,  but  no 
passion  and  no  adequate  mastery  of  the  ex- 
pressional  values  of  various  motions.  So  that 
while  her  dancing  may  dazzle  by  its  bril- 
liance, it  cannot  enthrall.  Nevertheless  her 
intelligent  and  unaided  endeavour  in  an  al- 
most deserted  field  of  art  was  most  admirable 
and  worthy  of  all  its  success. 

For  several  years  Wellesley  College  has 
been  giving  a  pictorial  dance  at  each  Com- 
mencement. In  these  interpretive  dances, 
which  are  held  out-of-doors  in  the  beautiful 
grounds  of  the  college,  the  parts  are  all  taken 
by  the  students;  and,  while  not  a  recognized 
part  of  the  academic  procedure,  it  might  well 
become  as  settled  a  custom  as  the  yearly  Se- 

219 


nior  Dramatics  among  the  students  of  Smith. 
Such  extra-academic  performances,  which  af- 
ford means  of  actual  training  in  the  arts,  are 
likely  to  be  of  far  more  value  to  the  student 
than  a  great  deal  of  her  theoretic  knowledge 
acquired  in  ''  Arts  Courses,"  which  are  not 
courses  in  art  at  all. 

Dancing  in  its  finest  development,  with  all 
its  scope,  bewitchment,  power,  and  satisfac- 
tions, has  nearly  become  one  of  the  lost  arts; 
but  instances  of  a  reviving  interest  in  it  here 
and  there  point  to  a  hopeful  future  when  one 
of  the  most  lovely  of  the  arts  shall  come  to  its 
own  again,  bringing  back  solace  and  gaiety 
and  innocent  ardour  to  an  overmentalized 
world. 


220 


X 

©It  JWueit  of  fife 


A  BRILLIANT  woman  once  said  to  me, ''  Life 
without  abandon,  to  me  is  a  dance  without 
music."  And  I  knew  instantly  what  she 
meant,  with  that  delight  one  always  feels  in 
the  perception  of  a  fresh  statement  of  truth. 

It  was  a  poet's  phrase,  and  as  all  good  poe- 
try will,  it  illumined  the  mind  at  once  with  a 
radiant  conviction,  and  left  itself  in  the  mem- 
ory as  a  perpetual  word  of  wisdom.  Every 
day  everywhere  I  am  constantly  having  it 
borne  in  upon  me  how  true  the  saying  is;  and 
as  I  hear  of  incidents  in  the  lives  of  my 
friends,  or  of  their  friends,  and  as  I  watch  the 
expression  of  men  and  women  going  by  me 
in  the  street  or  gathered   in   public   places, 

321 


zrije  iWaftlng  of  J^etsonalftff 

light-hearted  with  elation  or  depressed  with 
complaining,  I  find  myself  repeating,  not 
without  something  of  the  resigned  detachment 
of  the  philosopher,  ''  Life  without  abandon 
is  a  dance  without  music." 

But  what  do  we  mean  by  abandon?  I  mean 
a  free  and  unrestrained  yielding  of  oneself, 
at  any  given  moment,  to  the  best  promptings 
of  the  instinct,  the  reason,  and  the  spirit, — 
a  happy  and  ready  accepting  of  the  best  dic- 
tates of  conscience,  the  delicate  monitions  of 
kindliness  and  taste.  We  commonly  speak  of 
an  abandoned  person,  in  the  evil  sense  of  the 
word,  as  one  wholly  given  over  to  the  control 
of  the  baser  passions, —  one  in  whom  the 
malign  forces  which  dwell  in  humanity  have 
gained  another  of  their  sorry  victories.  And 
just  as  such  a  one  goes  down-hill  with  ever- 
increasing  speed,  unchecked  by  fear  or  hesi- 
tation or  scruple,  so  one  who  consciously 
yields  with  a  happy  abandon  to  the  beneficent 
and  goodly  powers  at  work  in  human  per- 


222 


SEfie  JHusic  of  Hift 

sonalities  may  mount  to  heights  of  developed 
manhood  or  womanhood  by  a  sheer  momen- 
tum of  reasonable  joy.  It  is  not  the  part  of 
abandon  to  falter  or  shuffle  or  count  the  cost, 
nor  to  be  laggard  in  well-doing  nor  lukewarm 
in  appreciation.  To  be  potent  in  abandon  and 
to  cultivate  it  is  to  be  instant  in  action,  gen- 
erous in  deed,  confident  of  resource,  and  pos- 
sessed by  an  invincible  faith  in  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  all  that  is  just,  beautiful,  and 
kindly  in  life. 

One  who  lives  with  abandon  lives  with  no- 
bility, sincerity,  and  freedom.  The  deep 
wells  of  life  are  Licxliaustible,  and  those  who 
draw  from  their  sweet  waters  most  lavishly 
are  most  sure  of  being  sustained  and  re- 
freshed. It  is  only  the  timorous  and  mean 
and  calculating  who  ever  imagine  those 
magic  springs  can  run  dry,  or  fancy  there  are 
narrow  limits  to  human  possibilities.  When 
the  dandelions  fail  to  reappear  with  the 
spring-time,  when  the  fogs  cease  to  blow  over 


223 


the  face  of  the  sea,  the  sources  of  mortal 
knowledge  and  aspiration  may  also  cease  and 
fail,  but  not  till  then. 

It  is  so  easy  to  distinguish  where  music  has 
gone  out  of  a  life,  and  where  it  still  lingers 
with  its  enrapturing  possession  of  the  person- 
ality! Here  go  by,  the  dejected  mien,  the 
dispirited  walk,  the  drooping  shoulders  and 
slovenly  gait,  the  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground, 
the  head  bowed  in  hopelessness;  these  are 
they  who  for  one  cause  or  another  have  lost 
the  first  fine  abandon  which  is  the  natural 
heritage  of  every  mortal  born  into  a  beautiful 
world;  they  have  ceased  to  make  magic 
music  in  their  personalities;  and  while  they 
still  go  through  the  motions  of  living,  they 
are  scarcely  more  than  automata  moving  to  a 
joyless  mechanical  rhythm,  creatures  of  rou- 
tine, puppets  dancing  without  a  tune.  Pity 
them,  for  they  are  the  unfortunates  of  the 
great  army  of  triumphant  humanity,  —  not 
only  the  deserters  and  stragglers  from  the 
ranks,  but  the  weak,  the  ignorant,  the  ill-ad- 

224 


Ef^t  mnuit  of  affe 

vised,  the  wayward,  who  have  somehow 
strayed  beyond  the  sound  of  the  fifes  and 
drums  and  go  plodding  on  out  of  step  and 
forlorn,  perhaps  wilfully  searching  for  free- 
dom, perhaps  only  vainly  looking  for  rest, 
and  never  guessing  that  all  their  wayfaring 
must  be  bound  in  misery  unless  they  can  re- 
cover the  strain  of  that  high  inspiriting  music 
they  have  lost,  and  which  somewhere  far  in 
the  van  is  still  calling  them  to  enthusiastic 
allegiance,  still  marking  an  irresistible  beat 
for  their  steps  to  follow. 

If  there  are  many  in  whom  the  music  of 
life  is  hushed  or  jangled,  there  are  more  in 
whom  it  is  resonant  and  alluring  still.  For 
among  the  multitude  of  the  silenced  tuneless 
personalities,  pace  for  pace  with  the  discord- 
ant and  disheartened,  moves  the  splendid 
company  of  confident  men  and  spirited 
women,  those  who  walk  with  springing  step 
and  uplifted  chest,  with  dancing  eyes  and 
traces  of  rapture  in  their  bearing.  They  may 
not  always  be   radiant  with   rejoicing,   they 

225 


may  even  be  sorely  touched  by  natural  sor- 
row, but  in  any  case  they  carry  themselves 
w^ith  a  freedom  and  intensity,  with  an  alert- 
ness and  vibrancy,  that  bespeak  the  undefeated 
soul  and  the  mind  still  free  from  the  blight 
of  dissonance  and  disillusion.  One  sees  at  a 
glance  that  they  have  not  surrendered  to  mis- 
fortune, nor  been  tainted  by  any  inward  cor- 
ruption of  fear  or  despair  or  ruthless  cruelty. 
If  black  pessimism  has  ever  whispered  in 
their  ears,  it  has  not  been  able  to  mark  them 
for  its  own.  For  them  the  bands  are  still 
playing  enlivening  airs,  as  the  human  pag- 
eant files  along  in  its  tatterdemalion  cele- 
bration of  living.  Whether  they  be  going 
afoot  or  on  horseback,  in  velvet  or  in  rags, 
seems  to  matter  but  lightly  to  them.  The  one 
great  fact  is  that  they  are  filled  with  the  music 
of  life.  Never  having  allowed  themselves  to 
become  unstrung,  their  resonant  personalities 
are  still  played  upon  in  the  rapturous  har- 
monies of  beneficent,  joyous  being. 

Music  of  life  is  everywhere,  and  those  who 
226 


Zf^t  JWufiiic  of  affe 

have  apprehended  its  presence  in  themselves 
and  in  others  are  in  possession  of  an  inval- 
uable knowledge.  It  must  always  seem  to 
them  of  the  first  importance  to  maintain  their 
power  of  abandon,  of  rapture,  of  resonance, 
at  all  hazards,  let  their  actual  fortune  be  what 
it  may.  They  will  make  any  sacrifice,  forego 
any  material  advantage,  disrupt  any  bondage, 
to  save  their  natural  responsiveness,  —  their 
zest,  their  vibrancy,  their  faculty  of  individ- 
ually reechoing  to  the  concord  of  existence. 
To  be  out  of  tune  with  themselves  and  inca- 
pable of  sharing  in  the  mighty  music  of  hu- 
man life,  whether  that  music  be  glad  or  sad, 
sorry  or  triumphant,  must  appear  to  them  as 
the  greatest  of  human  misfortunes,  for  they 
will  truly  apprehend  such  injury  and  deteri- 
oration as  a  fatal  beginning  of  death. 

Abandon  in  life  —  vivacity,  animation,  ar- 
dour—  is  like  music  in  that  it  gives  and  de- 
mands enlarged  scope  and  freedom  for  action, 
and  introduces  us  into  an  ideal  world,  where 
the  will  may  find  free  play  without  harm, 

227 


where  ''  nothing  beautiful  is  extravagant, 
nothing  delightful  unworthy."  Those  who 
walk  the  world  in  a  cloak  of  unsurrendered 
rapture,  however  worn  and  threadbare  their 
actual  garments  may  be,  are  in  possession  of 
ampler  opportunities  and  enjoy  purer  and 
more  generous  rewards  than  any  unfair  ex- 
travagance can  command.  They  always  have 
hope  and  faith  and  charity,  because  by  some 
means  they  always  keep  attuned  to  unpolluted 
life,  to  nature,  to  the  world,  to  society,  to  truth 
and  beauty,  and  never  permit  themselves  to  be 
severed  from  the  great  choral  unison  of  fel- 
low beings,  nor  cease  from  bearing  part  in  the 
divine  vibrancy  of  living.  They  may  have 
griefs  in  plenty  and  adversities  without  end, 
but  they  will  not  live  in  tuneless  despair,  they 
will  not  become  passive  automata  ruled  by 
rote.  Dance  they  must,  and  they  refuse  to 
dance  without  music. 

This  metaphor  of  the  musicalness  of  life  is 
applicable  to  many  things.  The  music  of 
wealth  is  the  freedom  it  gives  us,  the  power 

228 


Ciie  iWttfiifc  of  aife 

of  realizing  our  generous  impulses  immedi- 
ately and  without  hindrance,  as  in  an  ideal 
world.  The  music  of  night  is  its  space  and 
mystery  and  the  liberation  it  offers  the  spirit 
from  the  unimaginative  limitations  of  the 
day.  They  miss  its  music  who  do  not  yield 
to  that  fascination  of  vast  majestic  leisure  and 
solemnity,  as  those  miss  the  music  of  wealth 
who  carry  on  their  affairs,  on  whatever  scale, 
in  a  spirit  of  penurious  fretful  timidity,  with- 
out ever  hearing  the  melody  of  spontaneous 
generosity  and  the  greater  harmony  which 
would  arise  from  making  the  utmost  use  of 
their  resources,  whatever  they  may  be.  The 
music  of  a  great  festival  like  Christmas  is  the 
spirit  of  renewed  joy  and  kindliness  which 
it  celebrates.  We  miss  that  music  altogether 
if  we  allow  ourselves  to  make  a  burden  of 
the  day  through  petty  selfishness  or  pride  or 
greed,  if  we  are  unwilling  to  take  pains  for 
the  enjoyment  of  others,  if  we  let  ourselves 
grow  disgusted  from  a  few  hours'  shopping, 
if  we  fear  to  give  the  little  that  we  can  afford 

229 


joyously,  or  if  we  demand  material  excesses. 
Great  and  worthy  music  is  not  produced 
without  care  and  thought,  nor  sustained  with- 
out efifort. 

The  music  of  life  is  written  in  the  key  of 
the  ideal,  in  the  time  of  the  possible,  and  with 
the  cadences  of  personality.  To  be  without 
ideals  is  to  be  incapable  of  appreciating  or 
reproducing  this  magic  music.  Its  very 
source  is  ideality,  its  whole  aim  is  to  make 
use  of  the  encouragement  we  derive  from 
imaginary  perfection,  and  to  bring  happiness 
actually  to  pass.  Its  rhythm,  therefore,  must 
not  be  impossible  of  performance;  for  ideals 
which  are  incapable  of  any  practical  realiza- 
tion are  hardly  ideals  properly,  but  only  fan- 
cies and  phantasmagoria  of  the  fertile  mind. 
Moreover,  it  is  only  when  the  music  of  life 
shows  a  personal  cadence,  only  when  it  is 
modified  by  this  or  that  personality,  that  it 
has  individual  interest  and  significance.  Per- 
sonal cadence  is  what  transforms  the  music 
of  life  into  popular  (or  unpopular)  melody. 

230 


©fje  mnnit  of  Hift 

Abandon  in  life  finds  its  most  opportune 
and  appropriate  field  in  the  middle  realm 
of  the  spirit,  midway  between  high-pitched 
thought  and  low-tensioned  physicality.  True, 
it  has  its  affinities,  its  roots  and  blossoms,  in 
both  these  regions;  it  could  not  be  born  with- 
out taking  thought  of  some  object  for  an  ar- 
dour and  enthusiasm  to  attach  to,  and  it  could 
not  be  maintained  without  some  pleasurable 
realization;  but  its  service  belongs  chiefly 
to  the  emotional  world.  As  the  human  voice 
shows  its  rarest  beauty  in  the  middle  register, 
so  the  music  we  make  of  our  lives  shows  its 
loveliest  qualities  when  it  is  modulated  to  the 
compass  and  solace  of  the  soul,  between  the 
extremes  of  attenuated  thought  and  crude 
sensation.  It  can  afford  to  make  sparing  use 
both  of  the  deepest  bass  notes  of  the  senses  and 
the  keen,  thin  treble  of  mentality.  In  the 
generous  middle  octaves  where  the  chords  of 
the  heart  are  strung,  it  finds  its  most  congenial 
and  potential  sphere,  and  while  daring  to 
sound  all  notes  throughout  the  range  of  be- 

231 


ing,  uses  most  successfully  and  frequently 
those  that  are  most  sympathetic  to  human 
weal  and  woe. 

This  does  not  mean,  however,  that  any  mel- 
ody can  ever  be  made  in  the  music  of  life 
without  the  command  of  the  whole  gamut. 
The  low  strong  notes,  when  needed,  are  in- 
dispensable to  give  force  and  body;  the  fine 
high  notes  to  give  clarity,  definition  and 
finesse.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  feel  the  aban- 
don of  life  without  giving  it  some  expression 
in  voice  or  gesture,  in  speech  or  conduct,  and 
without  being  influenced  by  it  in  imagination 
and  thought  It  is  vital  to  the  very  essence 
of  abandon  that  it  should  be  shared  by  the 
whole  personality  without  restriction.  A 
strange  sort  of  abandon  that  would  be  which 
stopped  short  with  the  impulse  and  never 
found  vent  in  actual  expression,  nor  ever  had 
any  effect  on  our  ideas!  Persons  may  accen- 
tuate one  tone  or  another  in  human  relation- 
ships, they  may  chiefly  exchange  thought  or 
oflfer  sympathy,  but  not  magnetically  or  mu- 


©tie  JWufiifc  of  aife 

sically  until  the  whole  personality  is  harmoni- 
ously represented  in  the  intercourse.  You 
may  form  an  acquaintanceship  in  a  distant 
place  by  correspondence,  but  there  can  be  no 
true  fellowship  or  friendship  until  you  meet 
eye  to  eye  and  hand  to  hand.  The  primitive 
wholesome  instinct  of  the  senses  must  be  sat- 
isfied, as  well  as  the  more  tenuous  require- 
ments of  spirit  and  intelligence,  for  in  its 
sphere  and  at  its  best  it  is  quite  as  fastidious 
and  trustworthy  as  they. 

Thus  it  is  that  men  drink  together  to  bind 
a  bargain,  or  shake  hands  upon  a  transaction. 
The  discussion  of  the  subject  and  the  final 
agreement  to  which  it  leads  are  mere  proc- 
esses of  understanding,  where  personal  bias 
need  play  no  part.  But  after  the  terms  have 
been  settled,  and  if  the  men  feel  a  liking  for 
each  other,  they  instinctively  turn  to  some 
natural  physical  expression  of  their  unanim- 
ity and  good  fellowship;  there  is  a  relaxa- 
tion of  insistence;  the  senses  begin  to  beg  for 
their  part  in  the  compact;    then  the  glasses 

233 


2rj|e  JHatftin0  of  l&tvnonulits 

are  filled  and,  "  Here's  luck  to  the  venture!" 
They  find  gladness  in  that  abandon  and  be- 
come participants  in  the  music  to  which  the 
world  goes  round.  Or  the  music  may  only 
find  vent  in  the  altered  tones  of  the  voice. 
After  hours  spent  in  strenuous  discussion, 
where  brows  are  knit  in  close  attention,  where 
tones  are  high-pitched  and  looks  intent,  when 
a  settlement  is  reached  the  tenseness  of  atmos- 
phere is  relieved  at  once;  voices,  looks,  man- 
ners change  and  become  free,  glad,  spontane- 
ous and  attuned. 

So,  too,  in  affairs  of  the  heart,  as  our  grand- 
sires  called  them,  there  is  no  assurance  of  a 
happy  concord  short  of  the  ultimate  test;  and 
many  a  marriage  has  proved  a  pitiable  dis- 
aster because  the  consenting  mind  and  spirit 
led  the  senses  blindfold  into  a  relation  from 
which  they  revolted  without  compromise. 
There  is  no  foretelling  the  preference  of  in- 
stinct, and  in  these  sacred  matters,  to  do  vio- 
lence to  instinct  because  of  any  supposed  ob- 
ligation to  duty  or  advantage  or  self-interest 

234 


a^fie  mnnit  of  2L(fe 

is  an  abhorrent  wrong  punishable  by  death, 
—  sometimes  death  of  the  body,  sometimes 
death  of  the  soul.  How  often,  too,  —  perhaps 
how  much  more  often  —  the  opposite  calam- 
ity occurs,  when  the  too  eager  and  willing 
senses  find  themselves  responding  to  a  seem- 
ingly kindred  individual,  only  to  discover 
when  too  late  that  there  could  be  no  harmony 
of  feeling  or  understanding.  Nature  has  ar- 
ranged that  the  body  shall  know  its  own  kith^ 
and  kin,  as  the  mind  and  soul  know  theirs, 
with  an  instinct  that  is  imperious  and  une- 
quivocating.  It  is  this  possibility  of  diver- 
gence between  sense  and  spirit  that  works 
such  havoc  in  our  destinies,  unless  we  learn 
at  least  to  try  to  introduce  some  rational  uni- 
son among  our  correlated  but  only  half  recon- 
ciled powers  through  their  appropriate  and 
symmetrical  education. 

''  But  after  all,"  you  will  ask,  "  are  not  folk 
born  with  their  characters  and  temperaments 
already  formed?  Can  one  change  personal- 
ity?    Can  those  who   are  naturally  morose 

235 


ever  become  cheerful,  or  the  sullen  become 
sunny  of  temper?  " 

It  is  taking  a  great  deal  for  granted,  per- 
haps, to  say  that  these  seeming  miracles  can 
be  wrought.  And  yet  what  else  is  education, 
but  a  process  of  forming  character  and 
moulding  personality?  If  education  did 
nothing  but  inform  the  mind  it  would  be 
but  a  doubtful  good.  The  chief  function  of 
life,  perhaps,  is  to  change  and  modulate  per- 
sonality,—  to  evoke  its  beneficent  qualities 
and  restrain  its  dangerous  deflections,  to  cul- 
tivate it,  to  complete  it,  to  perfect  it  in  poten- 
tiality and  poise.  To  doubt  the  teachableness 
of  the  soul  is  to  be  guilty  of  the  ultimate  skep- 
ticism. You  or  I  may  be  stolid  and  inflexible, 
tenacious  of  our  own  wills,  refusing  to  learn 
wisdom  of  experience  or  to  grow  in  grace  as 
we  grow  in  years,  but  the  spirit  of  man  is  not 
so  intractable.  Our  stolidity  may  be  a  matter 
of  fear  or  small  vanity  or  dulness  of  mind. 
But  the  spirit  of  humanity  is,  in  the  long  ac- 
count, glad,  gracious,  malleable,  fearless,  and 

236 


Ef^t  iWtt6(c  of  2i(fe 

eager.  It  unfolds  itself  to  seek  new  knowl- 
edge, as  the  leaves  unfold  themselves  upon  the 
hills  to  take  the  winds  of  spring. 

Would  you  be  counted  among  the  music- 
makers  of  life,  among  the  company  of  the 
joyous  and  triumphant  whom  all  their  fellows 
welcome  and  no  destiny  can  defeat?  I  know 
only  one  way  of  attaining  to  that  happy  state 
of  being,  if  we  have  it  not,  —  the  way  in 
which  everything  is  accomplished,  —  and 
that  is  by  deliberate  endeavour.  It  requires 
most  careful  procedure  throughout  the  three 
distinct  though  inseparable  registers  of  living. 
As  the  first  requisite  to  tunefulness  in  a  mu- 
sical instrument  is  resonance,  so  the  first  re- 
quisite to  tunefulness  in  a  personality  is  re- 
sponsiveness of  character.  There  is  needed 
the  ready  and  open  spirit,  willing  and  eager 
to  respond  in  harmony  when  played  upon  by 
life,  by  beauty,  by  companionship,  —  glad  to 
reply  with  alert  appreciation  to  every  kindly 
advance,  every  beneficent  influence.  We  con- 
tribute to  the  music  of  life  or  not,  as  we  will. 

237 


It  is  first  of  all  a  matter  of  volition  and  spiri- 
tuality. The  soulless  being  could  make  no 
human  music. 

After  the  voluntary  desire  comes  the  need 
of  mental  attunement,  and  in  this  we  gain 
help  by  keeping  ourselves  surrounded  by  the 
masters.  The  culture  of  books  and  art  famil- 
iarizes us  with  the  best  music  of  life  that  has 
been  made  throughout  the  centuries.  Wher- 
ever there  is  a  fine  picture  or  building  or 
statue  to  be  seen,  or  any  beautiful  product  of 
craftsman's  skill,  there  is  a  trace  of  its  crea- 
tor's personality,  —  a  record  of  the  music  he 
could  make  out  of  life.  The  ^neid  is  not 
only  the  story  of  the  founding  of  Rome,  it  is 
the  musical  score  of  Virgil's  noble  personal- 
ity, left  for  our  happiness  and  encouragement, 
to  tell  us  how  serene  a  strain,  how  glad  and 
prosperous  a  harmony,  that  exquisite  mortal 
was  capable  of,  and  how  well  he  could  accord 
with  his  own  world  and  time.  So,  too,  of 
any  sincere  work  of  art,  —  Paradise  Lost, 
the    Sistine    Madonna,    The    Ring    and    the 

238 


Srtie  Jttttsfc  of  ISLitt 

Book,  the  famous  Ninth  Symphony,  Whis- 
tler's portrait  of  his  mother,  the  Winged 
Victory,  the  Taj  Mahal,  —  the  many  thou- 
sand vestiges  of  itself  that  the  joyous  creative 
impulse  has  left  upon  the  earth.  These  are 
so  many  rhapsodies  of  significant  and  delight- 
ful melodies  struck  by  original  composers 
from  the  mighty  medium  of  existence,  and 
bequeathed  to  their  fellows  as  possessions  of 
incalculable  value  for  ever.  Their  worth 
cannot  be  measured,  for  their  influence  is  un- 
told, and  to  nothing  can  we  give  many  hours 
more  profitably  than  to  their  study  and  enjoy- 
ment. Yet  must  our  enjoyment  and  our  study 
be  without  envy  or  servility,  for  each  one  of 
us  may  be,  indeed  must  be,  a  creator  in  some 
sort.  A  delightful  garden,  a  lovely  home,  a 
well-served  meal,  or  an  arrangement  of  fresh 
flowers  in  a  stone  jug,  may  be  our  contribu- 
tion to  the  loveliness  and  happiness  of  the 
world,  and  serve  as  our  message  of  joyance 
to  those  around  us. 

Much  has  been  written  of  bedside  books 
239 


srtie  JWafting  of  ^tvnonalits 

for  the  late  hours  of  candle-light,  —  books  of 
solace  and  peace  suitable  to  induce  rest  and 
invite  sleep  to  uneasy  brains.  But  there 
should  be  morning  books  on  the  same  shelves, 
volumes  of  inspiration  and  tonic  cheer  for 
our  waking  hours,  when  the  spirit  is  unstrung 
and  the  mind  unattuned.  A  brave,  coura- 
geous thought  or  a  happy  inspired  fancy  when 
we  first  open  our  eyes,  strikes  a  fine  key-note 
for  the  soul  to  vibrate  to,  and  helps  us  to  set 
out  upon  the  old  road  again  to  a  quickstep. 
Can  one  read  an  essay  of  Emerson's  or  a  lyric 
of  Wordsworth's  without  hearing  the  fifes 
and  flutes  begin  to  sound,  or  turn  a  page  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  without  thrilling  as  to  a 
bugle-call?  And  will  not  a  passage  from 
Isaiah  or  The  Leaves  of  Grass  lift  up  one's 
head  like  a  roll  of  drums?  Surely  a  day 
begun  on  such  a  note  must  come  to  a  more 
tranquil,  happy,  brave  and  successful  conclu- 
sion than  one  begun  in  a  haphazard  or  dis- 
cordant strain.  While  without  this  assistance 
we  might  take  up  the  work  of  the  day  in  a 

240 


mt  mnnit  ot  Hift 

dumb  silence  or  sadly  out  of  tune,  by  the  po- 
tent aid  of  such  suggestive  themes  we  should 
be  enabled  to  go  gladly  about  our  affairs, 
making  a  music  of  contentment  within  our- 
selves, vibrant,  hopeful,  and  possessed. 

There  is  a  third  requisite,  however,  to  be 
secured,  before  any  harmonious  rhythmic 
music  can  issue  from  these  wondrous  person- 
alities of  ours,  and  that  is  perfection  of  phy- 
sique. We  cannot  all  have  equally  beautiful 
bodies,  but  we  can  all  make  the  utmost  of 
those  we  have,  and  by  right  care  and  culture 
make  them  sufficiently  wholesome,  plastic, 
and  expressive  to  serve  our  needs.  Without 
such  care  and  training,  we  shall  have  only  a 
marred  and  uncomely  instrument  at  our  com- 
mand for  the  spirit  to  play  upon.  The  soul 
may  be  never  so  eager  and  responsive,  the 
mind  never  so  receptive  and  cultivated,  they 
must  still  be  foiled  in  the  making  of  the  best 
music,  any  vibrant  personal  melody,  if  the 
body  is  ill  or  weak  or  hampered  by  restraint, 
or  restricted  by  habit.     All  our  exuberance 

241 


and  wisdom  must  be  given  a  free  and  normal 
physicality  through  which  to  express  them- 
selves before  their  expression  can  become  ade- 
quate, effective,  and  vibrant,  —  before  the 
personality  of  which  they  form  the  inward 
part  can  create  its  own  motif  in  life.  Their 
generous,  impulsive  abandon,  their  spontane- 
ous gladness  or  sorrow,  their  impassioned  ec- 
stasy or  doubt,  will  be  stifled  and  mutilated  if 
forced  to  find  their  only  vent  through  an  ill- 
conditioned,  insensitive  or  immobile  body. 
Not  even  a  god  could  play  upon  a  checked 
and  broken  reed. 

All  these  things  are  within  the  reach  of 
every  man  and  woman  to  accomplish  in  some 
measure.  Any  one  surely  can  cultivate  a 
cheerful  responsiveness  of  spirit.  Any  one 
can  own  at  least  one  wise  book.  Any  one  can 
command  enough  exercise  and  fresh  air  and 
cold  water  to  ensure  bodily  health  and  come- 
liness. And  yet  out  of  such  few  and  simple 
elements  as  these  may  the  immortal  music  of 
life  be  evolved,  —  a  little  happiness  of  heart, 

242 


sri^e  Jttttsk  of  a(fe 

a  little  understanding,  and  a  modicum  of  care 
of  these  sensitive  instruments  on  which  we  are 
to  play. 

When  some  measure  of  this  reconciliatioi 
has  taken  place  in  any  personality,  how  capa- 
ble of  delightful  melody  it  becomes,  —  how 
responsive  to  an  innocent  and  happy  abandon! 
Then,  indeed,  is  the  fine  music  of  life  made 
possible.  Then,  indeed,  may  that  thrice  for- 
tunate individual  give  thanks  to  the  gods,  for 
the  music-makers  in  life  are  superior  to  cir- 
cumstance. Possessed  of  so  lovable  a  talent, 
so  indestructible  an  asset,  they  are  everywhere 
welcome  for  a  charm  that  is  never  outworn. 
Whether  they  be  wise  or  foolish,  calamity 
cannot  embitter  them,  nor  age  render  them 
unlovely.  Having  once  become  thus  attun- 
able,  life  plays  upon  them  with  all  its  infi- 
nitely variable  phases,  only  to  produce  new 
measures  of  the  infinite  harmony.  And 
through  their  power  of  music-making,  their 
capacity  of  transmuting  every  experience  into 
some  intelligible  theme,  either  of  gladness  or 

243 


2Ctie  Jttal^fng  of  ^tvuonalits 

sorrow,  they  escape  the  monotony,  the  tedious 
insignificance  of  those  who  are  discordant  or 
mute.  A  nature  in  which  such  an  adjustment 
has  taken  place  may  become  as  tuneful  as  an 
old  violin ;  it  mellows  with  years ;  so  that  to 
the  end  of  life  its  ever-enriching  tempera- 
mental tone  gives  forth,  to  wise  and  gentle 
evocation,  strains  of  rarest  music. 

When  two  such  personalities  meet  and  find 
themselves  in  harmony  in  all  the  realms  of 
being,  —  unanimous,  congenial,  and  at  one  in 
the  delicate  register  of  sense,  —  so  that  their 
individual  melodies  may  blend  and  mingle 
with  perfect  freedom  and  without  disparity 
or  discordance,  the  greater  eternal  music  of 
life  begins  to  be  heard  in  all  its  purity  and  be- 
witchment. There  can  then  be  no  jarring  nor 
disunion  in  those  two  fortunate  ones,  no  fatal 
blighting  conflict  between  spirit  and  sense  in 
either  life,  to  tear  it  asunder  as  so  many  lives 
are  torn,  —  no  stirring  of  the  blood  while  the 
heart  is  cold,  no  leaping  of  the  emotional  soul 
while  the  pulses  still  sleep,  and  neither  infat- 

244 


sri^e  Mnuit  of  atft 

uation  nor  rapture  without  the  glad,  appre- 
ciative assent  of  the  vigilant  yet  amenable 
mind.  If  love  is  the  only  source  of  abandon, 
the  primal  note  in  every  melodious  person- 
ality, it  is  also  surely  abundant  sanction  and 
sufficient  fulfilment  of  the  soul's  greatest 
rhapsodies. 

It  is  easy  to  recall  in  human  history  mem- 
orable names  of  characters  who  were  verily 
permeated  with  the  music  of  life.  That,  as 
a  modern  instance,  was  Stevenson's  rare  dis- 
tinction. There  was  the  frailest  of  mortals, 
in  no  way  exceptionally  favoured  by  worldly 
circumstance,  an  invalid  all  his  days,  yet  abso- 
lutely refusing  to  live  without  abandon.  In 
spite  of  sickness  or  hard  fortune,  he  would  not 
dance  without  a  tune,  and  made  music  every 
hour  he  was  alive.  There  are  myriads  like 
him  unknown  to  fame,  cheery,  brave,  diligent 
souls,  who  will  not  succumb  to  dreariness, 
weariness,  skepticism,  nor  despair.  It  may 
only  be  your  Chinese  laundryman,  the  porter 
who  makes  up  your  berth,  the  boy  who  runs 

245 


your  elevator,  or  the  first  cabby  you  pick  up 
at  the  curb,  who  has  the  magic  gift  of  tuneful 
joyousness  that,  unreasonable  as  it  may  seem, 
will  nevertheless  make  him  a  more  desirable 
acquaintance  for  the  hour  than  lugubrious 
brokers  or  unctuous  divines.  And  consider, 
in  comparison  (if  report  be  true,  poor  gentle- 
man!), such  an  inharmonious  character  as 
Carlyle's.  It  is  a  pity  that  so  sturdy  a  soul 
should  become  a  byword  for  crabbed  unhap- 
piness,  but  he  comes  to  mind  as  an  example 
of  the  type  which  is  never  happy,  never  makes 
music  in  life.  His  physical  frailties  were  too 
great  for  him  to  overcome.  A  constant  strife 
between  body  and  soul,  fretted  by  dyspepsia 
and  railing  against  fate,  make  sad  personal 
discord.  He  was  among  those  who,  for  all 
their  strength,  have  a  mighty  handicap  to  con- 
tend against  in  their  own  lack  of  harmony. 
The  world  is  full  of  them,  jangling,  dissonant 
beings,  corroded  by  peevish  discouragement, 
incapable  of  evolving  any  concord  in  them- 
selves and  unable  to  produce  any  resonant  joy- 

246 


©tie  Jtluf^ic  of  mu 

ousness  to  sweeten  their  noise  or  gladden  their 
silence  or  in  any  way  heighten  the  pleasure  of 
their  fellows.  For  them  no  task  is  easy,  no 
matter  how  great  their  genius.  Though  they 
were  emperors  or  prelates,  they  would  still 
be  merely  slaves  and  drudges  of  the  world, 
full  of  dissonance  and  resentment,  feeling  the 
very  gift  of  existence  to  be  a  bane. 

Abandon  means  fervour,  ecstasy,  enchant- 
ment of  the  mind,  fascination  of  the  will, 
enravishment  of  the  senses,  vital  generosity, 
recklessness  of  spirit,  the  fearlessness  of  intel- 
ligence. It  constitutes  the  good  measure  of 
life  needed  for  great  growth  that  is  the  main- 
spring of  progress,  in  science,  in  religion,  and 
in  art.  Without  some  overabundance  of  im- 
pulsive ardour  we  should  only  stand  still, 
having  barely  enough  energy  to  carry  us 
through  from  day  to  day,  from  birth  to  death. 
And  yet  the  quality  of  abandon  I  am  thinking 
of  is  not  an  attribute  only  of  youth  or  of  an 
excess  of  physical  vigour.  You  may  see  many 
old  persons  who  continually  make  music  in 

247 


8Cfie  JWafefng  of  ^tvuonnlits 

their  beings  as  they  sit  by  the  fire  all  day  long 
with  their  reading  or  their  dreams.  It  is  not 
that  they  have  never  known  sorrow ;  they  may 
have  borne  many  grievous  burdens;  but  the 
central  spirit  within  them  has  never  been  in- 
fected with  the  sullen  discontent  which  makes 
happiness  for  ever  impossible.  Whatever 
evil  destiny  may  have  befallen  them  they  have 
confronted  with  fortitude,  never  acknowledg- 
ing the  supremacy  of  hatred  or  harm,  temper- 
ing instead  of  mutilating  the  fibre  of  their 
being,  and  so  remaining  always  resonant  with 
goodness  and  gaiety  and  a  courage  of  endur- 
ance that  no  frailty  can  destroy.  They  have 
never  ceased,  and  need  never  cease  from  the 
ever  welcome  music-making  of  life,  though 
many  of  their  younger  neighbours,  perhaps 
more  fortunate  than  they,  with  far  less  cause 
for  the  lassitude  of  despondency,  may  be  cod- 
dling their  moping  souls  in  unbeautiful  taci- 
turnity. 

Possibly  these  unfortunates  never  felt  what 
abandon  means,  nor  ever  heard  the  entrancing 

248 


STJit  JHui^ft  Of  Hife 

music  of  life  calling  to  them  throughout  the 
world.  But  as  I  see  such  folk  living  in  deso- 
late loneliness,  dwelling,  as  it  were,  in  the 
silent  halls  of  gloomy  exclusion,  unlovely  and 
unloving,  harbouring  to  the  last  their  grudge 
against  the  world,  and  as  I  contrast  their  de- 
feat with  the  happy  triumph  of  those  sunny 
dispositions  who  never  refrain  from  sweet- 
voiced  fervency  of  enthusiasm  even  in  age,  I 
shake  my  head,  repeating  to  myself,  "  Life 
without  abandon  is  a  dance  without  music." 


249 


It  is  written  in  the  Book  of  St.  Kavin, 
^'  The  eye  for  science,  the  mouth  for  relig- 
ion, and  the  hand  for  art." 

As  the  eye  is  the  index  of  perception,  and 
the  mouth  the  symbol  of  desire,  so  the  hand 
is  typical  of  developed  power  and  reveals  the 
skill  and  efficiency  of  the  personality.  As  the 
eye  serves  intelligence  in  the  cause  of  truth, 
and  the  mouth  serves  the  soul  in  the  cause  of 
goodness,  so  the  hand  serves  in  the  making  of 
beauty.  With  the  eye  we  observe  and  reflect. 
With  the  mouth  we  shape  our  innermost 
yearning,  our  aspirations,  thanksgivings, 
dreams,  exultations,  hopes,  and  despairs. 
With  the  hand  we  mould  the  plastic  world 

250 


cue  Sottetff  of  tiie  l^antr 

to  our  will,  to  give  form  and  permanence  to 
our  ideals. 

In  no  other  way  is  the  supremacy  of  man 
so  clearly  shown  as  in  the  possession  of  hands. 
Arts,  cities,  empires,  civilizations  are  the 
work  of  his  hands.  With  his  naked  hands  he 
has  remade  the  world.  By  the  skill  of  his 
hands  he  holds  dominion  over  the  sea,  and 
makes  a  garden  of  the  desert.  The  round 
earth  is  covered  with  traces  of  his  handiwork, 
and  history  is  nothing  but  a  record  of  his 
craftsmanship.  Man  has  grown  in  justice 
and  understanding,  but  in  nothing  is  he 
greater  than  in  the  embodying  of  his  love  and 
his  thought,  —  in  the  fair  and  meaningful 
things  he  has  fashioned  to  please  his  imagi- 
nation and  satisfy  his  longing. 

Mammoth  ships  plying  through  the  sea 
under  the  stars,  titanic  engines  racing  east 
and  west  with  their  freighted  trains,  magic 
wonders  of  electric  machinery  in  a  hundred 
forms,  thousands  of  implements  for  innumer- 
able purposes,  all  seeming  so  vast  and  omnip- 

251 


otent,  and  all  controlled  by  the  same  dimin- 
utive, significant  hand  that  contrived  them 
w^ith  such  painstaking  ingenuity  and  fondness. 
Watch  a  great  steam  dredge  at  work,  or  a 
great  steam  derrick  lifting  girder  or  monolith 
into  place,  with  a  precision  that  almost  seems 
rational  and  a  strength  that  is  like  a  cosmic 
force,  and  then  suddenly  realize  that  it  is  con- 
trolled by  a  hand  of  frail  flesh  and  bone  held 
intelligently  on  the  gear. 

To  the  student  of  personality  the  hand  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  and  distinctive  fea- 
tures. One  can  scarcely  call  it  anything  else, 
so  sensitive  is  it  in  its  response  to  emotion,  so 
expressive  and  tvpical  o^  character.  Not  only 
does  it  betray  its  calling  and  occupation,  it 
also  bears  unmistakably  the  impress  of  the 
personality  behind  it.  Like  the  face,  it  is  only 
a  plastic  mask  through  which  the  individual- 
ity speaks  and  is  recognized.  Whether  or  not 
there  is  justification  for  the  more  elaborate 
and  exact  pretensions  of  chiromancy,  it  offers 


252 


artie  Sorcevff  of  ttie  ?^anlr 

sufficiently  rich  field  of  study  in  the  general 
unmistakable  characteristics  of  the  hand. 

The  hand  may  be  a  great  beauty  of  per- 
sonal expression  or  a  great  blemish.  It  need 
not  have  ideal  shapeliness,  size,  colour,  nor 
texture,  in  order  to  be  lovely,  and  it  may  be 
most  unpleasing  in  character  and  expression, 
while  in  size,  colour,  texture,  and  shape  it  is 
almost  faultless.  Many  a  statically  flawless 
hand,  like  many  a  perfectly  formed  face,  is 
beautiful  only  until  it  begins  to  speak,  when 
its  charm  vanishes  in  incongruity  and  our  dis- 
appointment makes  it  seem  unlovely  or  even 
repellent.  Awkward  and  inappropriate  mo- 
tion and  gestures  unerringly  reveal  unlovely 
causes,  —  a  fact  that  should  be  reckoned  with 
in  education. 

Pleasing  hands  can  be  made  or  marred  at 
will.  No  other  feature,  except  the  mouth,  is 
so  controllable,  so  amenable  to  development 
and  to  education  in  expression,  so  sensitive  to 
the  formative  influences  of  habit.     Our  eyes 


253 


change  but  little  and  with  difficulty,  under 
the  slow  process  of  a  humanizing  education, 
and  we  have  almost  the  same  eyes  in  maturity 
that  we  had  in  youth,  but  we  begin  to  make 
our  mouth  and  hands  from  our  earliest  years. 
So  accurate  a  record  of  personal  habits,  pre- 
dilections, and  propensities  is  the  hand,  that 
to  perfect  the  expression  of  any  given  hand 
would  be  to  materially  modify  the  education 
of  the  individual.  The  hand  is  most  readily 
educated,  if  not  to  perfection,  at  least  to  cor- 
rection of  its  worst  habits.  And  well-edu- 
cated hands  have  ease  and  dignity  and  interest 
which  give  them  a  distinction  beyond  mere 
beauty.  However  small  or  large  a  hand  is, 
it  need  never  be  embarrassed,  if  its  faults  have 
been  corrected  by  good  training. 

A  supremely  competent,  adequate,  clever 
hand  is  a  rare  distinction.  The  hand  of  the 
sculptor,  the  surgeon,  the  violinist,  how  elo- 
quently each  speaks  of  its  noble  artistry.  And 
the  hand  of  the  actor  may  be  half  his  fortune. 
Not  long  ago  I  witnessed  an  amateur  per- 

254 


formance  of  "  The  Heir-at-Law,"  in  which 
Dr.  Pangloss  was  played  admirably  by  a  man 
who  had  the  most  astonishingly  expressive 
and  well-educated  hands  I  have  ever  seen  on 
the  stage.  He  was  a  teacher  of  reading  by 
profession,  and  in  this  role  showed  admirable 
talent  as  an  actor.  In  his  hands  it  amounted 
to  genius,  so  convincing  were  they,  so  grace- 
ful, so  ready  and  inevitable  in  their  gestures. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  are  persons  into 
whose  presence  one  cannot  come  without  be- 
ing at  once  unpleasantly  aware  of  their  hands, 
which  seem  aggressive  and  malign  in  some 
abnormal  way,  and  infect  one  with  an  instinc- 
tive apprehension. 

The  aristocracy  of  the  hand  is  not  a  mat- 
ter of  whiteness  and  inutility,  but  of  adequacy 
and  finesse.  The  competent  hand  of  a  black- 
smith or  a  carpenter,  if  it  is  strong  and  cun- 
ning in  its  craft,  is  more  goodly  to  see  than 
the  pale  ineffectual  hand  of  idleness  and  va- 
pidity. The  self-conscious  curlings  and  atti- 
tudinizings  of  anxious  underbred  hands  are 

255 


2Cf)r  M^'^ina  of  ^tvuonulits 

no  help  toward  elegance.  The  Chinese,  who 
as  a  people  have  beautiful  hands,  and  set  par- 
ticular store  by  the  significance  of  hands,  con- 
sider white  hands  generally  inelegant  and 
inefficient,  and  indicative  of  crude,  immature 
racial  development.  The  smooth  and  shapely 
Chinese  hand  is  as  carnal,  capable,  and  unim- 
passioned  as  the  race  itself;  while  the  thin, 
nervous,  knobby  little  hands  of  the  Japanese 
are  characteristic  of  a  people  overtrained  in 
unselfish  serviceability. 

There  is  love  in  the  voice,  there  is  under- 
standing in  the  eye,  but  in  the  hand  there  is 
a  touch  of  that  happy  primordial  sympathy 
out  of  which  human  relationships  are  made. 
The  hand  has  not  only  refashioned  the  world 
into  a  place  more  habitable  and  fair,  but  daily 
it  does  the  bidding  of  kindliness  to  make  life 
itself  more  glad  and  easy.  It  cares  for  its 
children  and  its  helpless,  it  cherishes  those 
it  loves,  it  offers  welcome  to  the  stranger,  and 
in  the  eternal  struggle  for  liberation  it  turns 
back  oppression,  injustice,  and  defeat. 

256 


xm 

S'ije  ^taUn  of  ^rt 


We  talk  so  much  about  art  nowadays  that 
the  average  man  in  an  average  mood  is  apt 
to  be  betrayed  into  some  disgust  with  the 
topic.  '^  In  the  name  of  common  sense,  what 
is  all  this  pother  about?  Our  grandparents 
didn't  talk  about  art,  and  they  got  along  very 
well.  Isn't  there  a  lot  of  feeble  cant  regard- 
ing the  whole  subject?  Shouldn't  we  be  just 
as  well  off  if  no  one  ever  heard  of  art,  but 
went  about  the  wholesome  tasks  of  every  day 
in  the  good  old  cheerful,  thoughtless  fashion, 
without  any  doubts  or  discussions  of  the  mat- 
ter? " 

Unfortunately  we  cannot  do  that  if  we 
would.     We  are  born  into  a  time  of  unrest 

257 


and  agitation,  when  all  matters  are  under 
trial  to  be  sifted  for  their  worth.  We  must 
be  skeptics  and  experimenters  without  stabil- 
ity of  creed  or  certainty  of  procedure  in  the 
process  of  learning.  The  complexity  of  life 
has  begotten  a  perplexity  of  thought,  and  the 
older  ways  of  another  century  are  no  longer 
feasible.  However  weary  we  may  grow  of 
argument  and  analysis,  of  canvassing  new 
projects  in  religion,  in  sociology,  in  education, 
in  science,  in  philosophy,  or  in  art,  the  burden 
of  quest  is  upon  us.  Without  recreancy  to  an 
inherited  trust,  we  cannot  abandon  the  search 
for  truth.  What  the  nineteenth  century  be- 
gan in  its  splendid  w^ork  in  science,  we  must 
push  to  symmetrical  proportions  in  religion 
and  art,  that  is  to  say  in  sentiment  and  in  life, 
as  well  as  we  can. 

Art  is  a  great  pleasure.  It  may  have  what- 
ever other  obligations  you  will;  it  may  be 
asked  to  edify  and  instruct  and  ennoble,  to 
espouse  great  causes,  to  decorate  proud  and 
barbarous  civilizations,  to  express  premoni- 


8rj|e  Heatjen  of  itrt 

tions  of  the  divine,  or  to  serve  the  humblest 
craftsman  in  his  need;  but  still  its  first  con- 
cern will  always  be  to  render  satisfaction 
to  inarticulate  but  imperious  cravings  for 
beauty.  The  longing  for  aesthetic  fitness  and 
the  enjoyment  of  it  are  instincts  as  deep  and 
primitive  as  hunger  itself,  and  they  have  been 
no  less  real  in  their  effect  upon  life.  To  se- 
cure for  them  their  due  satisfaction  is  not  only 
a  legitimate  aim,  but  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful activities  to  which  we  can  turn  our  eager 
energy.  One  who  is  a  lover  of  art  in  any  form 
is  a  devotee  of  a  pure  and  ancient  cult,  which 
superstition  and  bigotry  and  the  pedantic 
wrangling  of  the  schools  have  not  been  able 
to  annihilate.  He  is  partaker  in  an  imme- 
morial universal  religion,  whose  doctrines  are 
renewed  by  every  breath  of  the  sweet  wind 
of  heaven,  whose  traditions  are  drawn  from 
the  twelve  corners  of  the  world,  and  whose 
invisible  altars  are  fed  by  the  fires  of  an  inex- 
tinguishable ardour. 

Ah,  no,  we  are  wrong,  to  grow  impatient 
259 


over  continued  discussion  of  so  great  a  theme! 
There  are  sober  considerations  in  the  subject 
which  must  appeal  to  every  sane  being,  and 
which  lead  to  the  belief  that  a  just  under- 
standing of  all  that  art  implies  would  do  more 
than  any  one  thing  to  increase  the  happiness 
of  men.  Not  a  knowledge  of  the  fine  arts 
merely,  but  the  knowledge  and  practice  of  art 
in  every  province  of  daily  living;  not  only  a 
cultivation  of  one  or  more  of  the  arts,  whether 
fine  or  industrial,  but  the  habitual  use  of  art 
in  affairs  everywhere  at  all  hours.  A  rational 
art  of  life  is  the  consummate  flowering  of 
human  endeavour.  To  cultivate  it  may  well 
be  our  persistent  care,  since  it  will  make,  to 
any  personality,  so  rich  and  incomparable  a 
return. 

An  art  of  living,  however,  is  as  it  were  a 
generalization  of  art,  and  calls  into  execution, 
through  conduct,  those  qualities  of  mind  and 
temper  and  equipment  which  every  good  ar- 
tist must  possess.  A  supreme  artist  is  an  artist 
not  alone  in  his  painting  or  his  music,  but  in 

260 


srjje  aeatien  of  art 

his  every  act  and  undertaking.  He  will  have 
learned  from  the  pursuit  of  his  chosen  calling 
such  a  love  of  perfection,  such  a  sense  of  or- 
der, such  an  appreciation  of  aptness  and  pro- 
portion, that  he  will  make  all  of  his  life  as 
harmonious  and  lovely  as  his  work.  Some 
persons,  indeed,  have  this  passion  for  perfec- 
tion in  the  conduct  of  daily  life,  this  genius 
for  the  art  of  living,  so  fully  developed  that 
they  are  not  impelled  to  find  a  vent  for  their 
creative  talents  in  the  pursuit  of  any  one  of 
the  specific  arts.  But  whether  one  be  an  artist 
in  conduct  or  in  clay,  the  characteristics  re- 
quired and  fostered,  and  the  principles  ma- 
terialized by  artistry,  are  much  the  same.  It 
is  a  matter  of  devotion  to  spirit  and  outlook, 
to  inspiration  and  aspiration.  The  real  artist 
delights  in  perfect  execution  and  finds  happy 
satisfaction  in  adjusting  means  to  ends,  in 
finding  adequate  expression  through  any  me- 
dium, and  is  never  satisfied  with  anything  ill 
done.  "  Only  the  best  is  good  enough,"  must 
be  his  uncompromising  motto. 

261 


Do  you  think  it  would  be  an  exaggeration 
to  say  that  most  of  the  faults  of  modern  civili- 
zation spring  from  a  lack  of  artistic  appreci- 
ation? Why  this  endless  strife  between  those 
who  have  and  those  who  have  not?  Why, 
but  for  the  fact  that  we  all  make  mistakes 
about  happiness,  supposing  that  it  must  de- 
pend upon  possessions,  whereas  it  rests  much 
more  upon  individual  ability  to  discriminate 
wisely  and  to  live  selectively?  Our  incorri- 
gible mania  for  wealth  comes  from  this  mis- 
apprehension. The  most  inveterate  and  typ- 
ical money-getter  is  notoriously  a  man  of  few 
resources  within  himself  and  of  little  essential 
culture.  Why  shouldn't  he  chase  his  golden 
prize?  He  knows  nothing  better  to  do  with 
his  time,  no  other  way  to  seek  necessary  pleas- 
ure of  living.  Poor  fellow,  he  is  often  enough 
desperately  in  need  of  a  little  real  happiness, 
of  some  touch  of  real  gladness  which  he  can- 
not buy.  He  is  often  enough  as  simple  and 
kindly  as  he  is  capable,  and  his  chief  error  is 
one  of  ignorance.     Having  the  crude   idea, 

262 


2Cfie  Heatien  of  art 

common  to  uncultivated  minds,  that  in  order 
to  enjoy  life  one  only  need  own  the  earth  and 
have  all  its  pleasures  at  command,  he  does 
not  find  out  until  too  late  that  to  own  is  not 
inevitably  to  command.  He  has  not  discov- 
ered that  enjoyment  does  not  depend  wholly 
upon  good  fortune,  but  is  equally  a  matter  of 
temperament  and  character.  He  does  not 
know  what  the  artist  in  life  could  tell  him^ 
that  happiness,  while  it  is  naturally  evoked 
by  pleasure,  is  essentially  the  product  of  per- 
sonality, and  results  only  from  a  fortunate 
adjustment  between  the  soul  and  its  surround- 
ings. 

This  being  so,  it  is  the  part  of  simple  wis- 
dom to  care  for  that  adjustment.  Such  a  task 
is  eminently  a  matter  requiring  the  most  com- 
prehensive and  subtle  art;  and  when  once  this 
possibility  is  realized,  it  will  no  longer  seem 
sensible  to  give  wastefully  of  one's  days,  one's 
health  and  honesty  and  humanity,  to  the  ac- 
cumulation of  possessions.  It  will  come  to 
the  mind  like  a  breath  of  inspiration,   that 

263 


every  moment  of  activity,  every  hour  of  efifort, 
may  be  caused  to  yield  an  adequate  gladness 
without  anxiety,  and  that  conduct  from  day 
to  day  may  be  made  a  fine  art  which  shall 
dignify  and  ennoble  life  under  whatever  cir- 
cumstances. The  inward  triumph  of  the 
spirit,  its  native  delight  in  all  simple  unex- 
travagant  beauty,  will  then  begin  to  make  it- 
self felt,  —  the  elation  of  the  artist,  an  uplift- 
ing of  the  heart  in  joyousness  such  as  Words- 
worth meant,  when  he  wrote  in  his  poem 
about  the  daffodils,  — 

**  For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills. 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils." 

There  would  come  to  any  one  who  honestly 
tried  to  master  the  haphazard  trend  of  events 
by  confronting  them  with  a  rational  skill,  the 
same  satisfaction  which  an  artist  must  experi- 
ence in  seeing  his  work  grow  from  chaos  to 

264 


8ri|t  aeaUen  of  Slrt 

ordered  and  meaningful  loveliness  beneath 
his  hand.  And  conversely  there  would  come 
to  him  who  diligently  cultivated  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  fine  arts  an  informing  sense  of  pur- 
pose and  proportion,  and  a  love  of  perfection, 
which  could  not  but  make  themselves  felt  in 
every  undertaking  of  that  sentient  personal- 
ity. 

This  is  no  more  than  the  object  at  which 
all  culture  aims,  —  the  imparting  to  person- 
ality of  a  power  to  deal  with  life  on  fair 
terms.  To  be  wholly  without  culture  is  to  be 
wholly  at  the  mercy  of  circumstances,  incapa- 
ble of  securing  happiness  by  any  wise  means, 
incapable  even  of  making  a  creditable  liveli- 
hood. For  culture  must  be  considered  a  wide 
term,  applicable  to  our  most  elementary  ca- 
pacities as  to  our  most  refined.  To  be  culti- 
vated is,  not  to  possess  extraordinary  learning, 
but  to  possess  a  personality  adequately 
equipped  to  appreciate  and  meet  the  demands 
of  life  successfully,  —  not  only  with  the  prim- 
itive success  which  means  a  comfortable  or 

265 


luxurious  living,  but  with  the  higher  suc- 
cess which  implies  a  sanity  and  joyousness  of 
life. 

Through  symmetrical  culture  we  attain 
the  point  of  view  of  the  happiest  and  wisest 
ones  of  the  earth,  wherever  they  have  left 
record  of  their  gladness  or  wisdom.  Through 
a  cultivated  acquaintance  with  art  in  all  its 
works  of  beauty  we  come  to  be  infused  with 
the  enthusiasm,  the  insight,  the  sincerity,  the 
glad  and  prospering  spirit  of  the  masters 
great  and  goodly,  who  saw  what  was  best  in 
life  and  had  the  incomparable  gift  of  making 
that  boon  apparent  to  others.  So  the  beauti- 
ful products  o*f  art,  pictures,  statues,  operas, 
dramas,  poems,  churches  and  houses,  old  rugs 
and  furniture,  silverware,  jewels,  carvings, 
tapestries,  costume,  when  they  are  eminently 
excellent,  become  so  many  foci  for  the  spread 
of  that  happy  state  of  being  which  the  orig- 
inal artists  experienced  in  creating  them.  All 
who  encourage  and  educate  themselves  to  be- 
come  appreciators  of  such   things,   to   know 

266 


?rj|e  aeaben  of  Mvt 

their  value  and  feel  their  influence,  undergo 
a  change  and  refinement  of  character  which 
a  crude  manner  of  living,  however  strenuous 
or  extravagant,  can  never  exert.  They  are 
able  to  add  to  the  physical  and  fundamental 
power,  with  which  primitive  life  endows  us, 
the  loftier  and  subtler  attributes  of  a  culture 
both  intellectual  and  moral  which  it  is  the 
chief  aim  of  any  civilization  to  bestow.  In 
so  doing  they  become  initiates,  or  at  least  nov- 
ices, in  the  joyous  cult  of  creative  art;  they 
come  to  understand  the  satisfaction  which 
artists  take  in  perfection,  and  to  attempt  the 
development  of  it  through  daily  affairs. 

Specialized  artists  are  not  as  a  class  the 
happiest  of  mortals.  But  that  is  because  they 
fail  to  relate  their  ideals  naturally  to  life, 
rather  than  because  they  are  vowed  to  the 
exacting  standards  of  perfection.  Unhappi- 
ness  comes  upon  them,  as  it  would  upon  any 
one  else,  in  consequence  of  folly  and  indiffer- 
ence and  wilfulness  and  mistake;  and  their 
devotion  to  art^  which  is  often  held  to  be  the 

267 


2rfir  iWaftfitfl  of  J^rrsonaUts 

cause  of  their  misfortunes,  is  in  reality  the 
only  mitigating  factor  in  their  lives.  When 
an  artist  makes  a  ruin  of  his  career,  it  is  not 
art  that  is  to  blame,  but  his  own  bungling 
irrationality.  It  would  be  truer  to  say  that 
he  missed  happiness,  because  his  art  was  too 
partial  and  wayward  and  short-sighted. 
Great  artistry,  such  indeed  as  does  not  often 
make  itself  manifest,  if  it  should  take  posses- 
sion of  a  man,  would  not  dissipate  itself  in 
unreasonable  creations  of  empty  and  fantastic 
beauty,  but  would  permeate  the  man's  whole 
nature,  touching  his  mind  as  well  as  his  spirit 
and  his  senses,  and  making  him  sane  and 
happy  as  well  as  inspired. 

We  need  not  look  on  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment, therefore,  with  Philistine  supercilious- 
ness. For  in  itself  it  is  a  wholly  excellent 
quality,  needing  only  to  be  balanced  by  some 
sober  traits  of  common  sense  of  which  the 
practical  man  claims  the  monopoly.  Prac- 
tical common  sense  avoids  many  disasters  and 
insures  useful  creature  comforts.     By  itself, 

268 


8Ciie  aeatitn  of  ^tt 

however,  unmixed  with  warmer  and  more 
spirited  characteristics,  it  may  be  a  very  bleak 
and  joyless  equipment.  It  needs,  for  its  per- 
fecting, the  complementary  strength  of  ar- 
dour, the  touch  of  fearless  elation,  unspoiled 
faith,  and  imagination,  a  sensitiveness  to 
beauty  and  an  aspiring  loving-kindness,  that 
are  perennial.  To  be  effective  for  happiness, 
common  sense  must  be  winged  with  a  touch 
of  artistry.  When  once  this  truth  is  realized 
it  will  never  be  undervalued  nor  discarded. 
The  leaven  of  art  in  life  glorifies  human 
effort  and  achievement  by  infusing  beauty 
through  every  undertaking,  by  instilling  can- 
dour in  the  mind,  and  by  filling  the  heart  with 
a  gladness  that  could  not  have  been  foretold. 
Art  is  a  paper  lantern,  perishable  but  indis- 
pensable, whose  flame  is  goodness,  whose  light 
is  truth,  whose  sides  are  patterned  with  shapes 
of  beauty,  and  whose  office  is  to  illumine  and 
make  festal  for  us  the  rough  and  devious  road 
to  perfection.  Without  art  we  must  remain 
sombre  and  dispirited  wanderers,  distracted 

269 


amid  the  mazes  of  a  meaningless  and  hostile 
world.  With  it  we  may  do  much  to  unravel 
a  significance  from  the  dark  oracles  of  fate, 
and  render  existence  not  only  bearable  but 
biddable,  glad,  and  fair.  Art  in  its  widest 
sense  covers  all  provinces  of  life,  and  with 
religion  and  science  forms  a  sort  of  philo- 
sophic trinity  representing  all  that  man  may 
do  or  feel  or  know.  But  just  as  many  men's 
emotions  and  thoughts  never  rise  to  the  level 
of  religion  and  science,  so  most  men's  acts  and 
work  rarely  rise  to  the  level  of  art.  In 
achievement  art  gives  the  final  hint  of  magic 
which  differentiates  a  man  from  a  machine, 
—  that  evidence  of  variable  human  mind 
which  no  automaton  can  ever  reproduce. 
The  glory  of  art  is  only  that  it  makes  earth 
more  habitable  and  humanity  more  divine. 

The  business  of  art  is  to  afford  joyance. 
When  it  fails  of  this,  it  is  bankrupt  altogether, 
being  unable  to  meet  its  legitimate  obliga- 
tions. Since  few  can  live  as  joyously  as  they 
would,  what  a  shame  it  is  that  great  gifts  of 

270 


STfje  Hea^ben  of  art 

expression  should  ever  be  wasted  on  heinous 
and  joyless  subjects!  Think  of  the  hideous 
and  revolting  plays  with  which  an  impover- 
ished dramatic  art  overloads  our  stage  in  an 
attempt  to  stimulate  sensation,  regardless  of 
beauty,  regardless  of  the  whole  truth,  and 
more  than  all  regardless  of  that  inward  core 
of  human  love  which  is  only  goodness  under 
another  name!  Good  art  is  not  an  expensive 
thing,  weighed  in  the  scales  of  the  counting- 
house.  Yet  it  is  priceless  in  that  it  cannot  be 
bought  with  any  amount  of  money  alone. 
There  must  always  some  love  go  with  its 
price.  And  while  it  becomes  one  of  the  chief 
requisites  of  a  happy  life  to  surround  our- 
selves with  art,  that  does  not  mean  that  we 
must  have  costly  trappings  and  outfit  and  ex- 
pensive homes.  A  modest  apartment  on 
which  thought  and  care  and  taste  have  been 
lavished  with  loving  generosity  may  be  a 
beautiful  home  where  one  is  thankful  to  be 
made  welcome;  while  across  the  Park  some 
monstrous  pile  of  stone  may  lift  itself  against 

271 


the  sky,  a  monument  of  pathetic  ambition,  a 
warehouse  full  of  costly  and  unlovely  mer- 
chandise, an  offence  to  taste  and  an  affront  to 
moderation. 

Good  taste  is  no  respecter  of  prices;  it 
knows  values,  appreciates  worth,  and  reveres 
beauty  wherever  it  finds  it.  Nor  does  it  ever 
grudge  to  pay  the  utmost  cost  for  beauty  in 
patience,  toil,  painstaking,  and  devotion.  It 
will  gladly  lavish  a  whole  day  in  rearrang- 
ing a  room,  matching  a  colour  scheme,  or 
finding  an  inevitable  cadence.  He  is  but  a 
slovenly  artist  in  letters  who  will  not  wait  a 
week  for  the  irresistible  word,  if  need  be, 
though  knowing  all  the  while  that  genius 
would  have  found  it  on  the  instant.  Taste, 
which  plays  our  good  angel  in  matters  of 
beauty,  is  as  scrupulous  as  conscience,  as  un- 
erring as  reason,  and  guides  our  senses  in  the 
disputable  ways  between  the  unlovely  and  the 
desirable,  just  as  those  sensitive,  incorrupti- 
ble monitors  of  the  soul  and  mind  guide  us 
in  the  regions  of  conduct  and  of  thought. 

272 


It  is  no  sign  of  good  taste,  however,  to  pur- 
sue some  petty  art  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
obligations,  but  indicates  the  old  false  notion 
that  art  is  something  elegant  and  genteel  con- 
ferring a  superiority  on  those  who  follow  it. 
Whereas  the  truth  is  we  should  all  be  artists, 
artists  in  our  own  life  and  artists  in  our  own 
work,  however  inconspicuous  that  work  may 
be.  An  artist  is  any  one  who  glorifies  his 
occupation.  It  is  no  evidence  of  artistic  apti- 
tude to  spend  days  and  years  in  playing  the 
ineffectual  amateur,  while  all  personal  af- 
fairs are  allowed  to  run  as  they  will;  it  is 
rather  an  indication  of  a  self-indulgent,  ir- 
rational nature.  An  instinct  for  the  art  of 
living  is  greater  than  an  overemphasized 
single  talent  or  personal  preference,  and  its 
obligations  are  more  primary,  more  impor- 
tant, and  more  closely  bound  up  with  the 
problem  of  happiness.  Creative  art  can  have 
no  character  nor  value  nor  beauty,  if  the  life 
that  nourishes  it  has  not  first  its  due  order  and 
significance  and  seemliness.     The  tent  must 

273 


2ri^e  M^^itiS  of  ^tvnon^lits 

be  pitched  and  the  fire  lighted  before  we  can 
expect  the  goddess.  To  muddle  or  neglect 
the  first  duties  of  life  is  fundamentally  and 
to  the  highest  degree  inartistic,  since  it  throws 
us  back  into  a  chaos  from  which  neither 
beauty  nor  joyance  can  spring,  and  where  the 
creative  impulse,  however  genuine,  must 
eventually  perish  of  morbid  sickness. 

Literary  and  artistic  folk  are  almost  pro- 
verbial for  carelessness  in  dress  and  demean- 
our and  the  small  amenities  of  life,  and  often 
think  it  a  mark  of  distinction  to  be  so.  Mag- 
nifying their  own  art,  often  with  a  praise- 
worthy singleness  of  devotion,  they  forget  that 
the  art  of  life  is  a  larger  matter,  including 
their  own  particular  craft,  imposing  its  limits 
and  reservations,  as  it  bestows  its  facilities  and 
advantages,  on  all  alike.  Painters  often  dress 
unnecessarily  unbecomingly,  though  their 
taste  is  fully  trained  to  befitting  appropriate- 
ness in  colour  and  costume  in  any  key  of  cost 
or  requirement.  Poets  and  writers,  whose 
chief   concern   is   wisdom,    are   often    among 

274 


2Ci)t  Htni^tn  of  ^xt 

the  most  unwise  of  men  in  the  conduct  of  their 
own  lives.  While  women,  who  one  would 
suppose  might  always  be  credited  with  per- 
sonal nicety  and  loveliness,  often  seem  to 
fancy  that  absorption  in  music  or  letters  or 
painting  gives  them  the  liberty  to  be  disor- 
derly, distrait,  untidy,  and  irresponsible. 

It  is  such  false  procedure  and  thoughtless 
reasoning  that  bring  art  and  ideals  into  dis- 
repute, and  cause  havoc  in  the  lives  of  so 
many  artists.  A  sober  realization  of  the  ne- 
cessity and  desirableness  of  an  art  of  individ- 
ual living  would  make  such  mistaken  over- 
emphasis impossible.  The  great  thing  is  to 
keep  one's  mettle  from  becoming  distem- 
pered, and  this  is  not  to  be  done  by  evading 
and  ignoring  the  requirements  and  desirabil- 
ities of  actual  life,  but  by  meeting  and  master- 
ing them.  To  overindulge  an  artistic  bent  to 
the  limit  of  its  capacity  is  to  induce  a  self- 
dissatisfaction,  a  mordant  fretfulness  of  spirit, 
and  ultimate  disappointment;  while  the  mod- 
ifying and   regulating  of  special  capability, 

275 


through  the  successful  handling  of  practical 
concerns,  affords  a  training  which  is  most 
likely  to  insure  a  masterly  success  in  the 
chosen  art. 

Art  as  a  revivifying  element  in  life  plays  a 
part  similar  to  nature's  in  her  tonic  recreative 
influence.  We  must  dwell  in  the  sun  and 
open  air,  within  sound  of  the  trees  and  be- 
neath the  touch  of  the  sweet  wind  and  the 
rain,  shunning  too  much  of  the  sedentary,  de- 
teriorating life  of  houses,  if  we  would  grow 
sound  and  glad  and  sane.  Just  as  truly  we 
must  not  be  wholly  given  over  to  out-of-doors, 
nor  be  satisfied  with  maintaining  a  primitive 
animal  wholesomeness.  Life  for  the  modern 
is  not  so  simple  as  that.  There  are  inerad- 
icable hungers  of  the  mind  to  be  satisfied,  pas- 
sionate desires  of  the  soul  for  legitimate  grati- 
fication in  creative  art,  unconquerable  and 
goodly  aesthetic  impulses  which  must  not  be 
defrauded  of  their  development.  Let  us  have 
an  ample  life  in  the  open,  to  keep  us  sane  and 
strong  and  sweet;  but  life  in  art  also,  to  keep 

276 


srije  aeaben  of  att 

us  interested,  growing,  civilized,  and  humane. 
Only  under  influences  tending  to  cultivate 
symmetrically  the  body  and  the  intelligence 
can  the  spirit  be  most  bravely  fostered  and 
happiness  most  surely  emerge. 


277 


^m^mt  aittr  Jiuiftret 


It  is  easy  to  be  an  impractical  dreamer. 
There  have  been  seers  and  prophets  in  all  ages, 
but  there  have  also  been  ineffectual  vision- 
aries who  wasted  their  lives  in  idle  speculation 
and  moody  discontent,  lost  among  the  clouds. 
It  is  easy,  too,  to  be  absorbed  wholly  in  prac- 
tical affairs  and  put  dreams  aside  altogether, 
as  many  men  do  from  sheer  faintness  of  heart 
at  the  prospect  of  unremitting  toil  which  ex- 
istence demands.  But  it  is  not  easy  to  be  both 
inspired  and  practical  at  the  same  time,  for 
that  implies  a  nice  balance  of  appreciation 
under  the  supervision  of  an  unbiassed  judg- 
ment. 

It  is  easy  to  build  castles  in  the  air;  one 
278 


may  spend  whole  days  in  that  seductive  occu- 
pation; and  it  is  almost  equally  easy  to  lay 
one  brick  upon  another  without  giving 
thought  to  anything  except  the  mortar  be- 
tween them.  But  he  is  master  of  his  world 
who  can  both  plan  and  achieve,  who  keeps  his 
plans  within  the  bounds  of  the  achievable,  and 
brings  his  achievements  up  to  the  require- 
ments of  his  plans.  His  castles,  though  pro- 
jected in  Spain,  he  sees  reproduced,  perhaps 
after  long  years  and  perdurable  patience, 
from  the  solid  ground  before  his  eyes. 

In  ''  The  Last  Ride  Together "  you  may 
read: 

**  What  hand  and  brain  went  even  paired  ? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared  ? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been  ?  " 

And  it  is  true  and  natural  that  some  must  be 
preeminently  designers,  and  others  preemi- 
nently builders;  yet  each  must  gain  a  modi- 
cum of  the  capacity  of  the  other,  for  the  best 
efficiency  and  cooperation,  and  for  rendering 
the  best  service  to  the  world.    We  must  spe- 

279 


STije  J«afefnfl  of  ^tvuonulits 

cialize,  indeed,  for  the  finest  productivity  in 
the  liberal  arts  and  industries.  But  it  is  not 
good  for  a  man  to  specialize  so  closely  and 
excessively  as  to  lose  his  breadth  of  under- 
standing and  sympathy,  and  impair  the  nor- 
mal completeness  of  his  own  nature  and  de- 
velopment. For  after  all,  the  arts  exist  for 
man,  and  not  man  for  the  arts.  And  the  full- 
est and  finest  art  of  all,  the  art  of  life,  de- 
mands that  w^henever  our  pursuits  begin  to 
w^ork  more  harm  than  benefit,  we  should 
change  or  amend  them. 

When  it  comes  to  the  consideration  of 
standards  of  personal  culture  and  precepts  of 
conduct,  the  sanest  criterion  must  be  to  keep 
our  ideals  and  actions  in  close  accord.  Ideals 
are  good,  but  they  are  not  all  equally  good, 
and  those  are  best  for  our  life  here  and  now 
which  can  be  realized  in  some  degree  by  pos- 
sible effort.  It  is  a  dangerous  habit  to  in- 
dulge in  dreams  which  can  never  be  accom- 
plished—  as  if  a  mariner  on  the  Atlantic 
should  occupy  his   time   in   plotting  courses 

280 


among  the  South  Sea  Islands.  There  can 
never  be  any  radical  divergence  between  the 
different  elements  of  a  man's  nature  and  life 
v^ithout  injury  therefrom.  To  lead  one  life 
in  dream  and  another  in  reality  is  a  fatal  du- 
plicity, innocent  though  it  seem. 

It  is  in  youth  that  we  are  most  subject  to 
the  seductions  of  vague,  magnificent  and  elu- 
sive ideals.  We  are  easily  carried  away  by 
the  splendour  of  looming  possibilities,  sus- 
tained by  enormous  ambitions,  and  impatient 
of  the  plodding  prosaic  measures  of  our  sires. 
We  scoff  lightly  at  their  methods  of  prudence 
and  hold  practicality  generally  in  imperious 
contempt.  Life  is  all  poetry  to  our  inexperi- 
ence, and  we  are  very  willing  to  take  its  intox- 
ication of  beauty,  without  asking  for  its  fun- 
damental structure  of  reasonableness  and  ex- 
cellence. Whatever  is  humdrum  or  rational 
seems  to  partake  too  much  of  the  earth  for 
our  fastidious  fancy.  We  chafe  at  caution, 
demur  at  the  authority  of  tradition,  and  are 


281 


eager  to  disrupt  the  world  in  the  confident 
belief  that  we  could 

"  Remold  it  nearer  to  the  heart's  desire." 

As  we  mature,  however,  we  learn  a  juster 
estimate  of  things;  we  perceive  that,  however 
faulty  this  world  may  be,  it  is  the  one  we  have, 
and  it  is  folly  not  to  make  the  best  of  it.  To 
that  end  we  come  to  value  ideals  in  propor- 
tion to  their  applicability  to  life.  We  see  that 
they  are  of  little  use  unless  they  can  be  made 
practical  aids  to  daily  life,  and  we  begin  to 
select  from  our  vasty  dreams  those  which  can 
be  translated  into  action  or  art.  We  learn 
that  the  soul  must  condescend  to  live,  and  that 
its  daily  task  is  the  merging  of  the  ideal  in  the 
actual,  and  the  gradual  transforming  of  the 
actual  into  the  ideal.  Dreamful  youth  grows 
aware  that  this  is  the  sanction  of  life;  lays 
aside  its  noble  scorn  of  the  practical;  submits 
itself  to  the  stern  inevitable  law  of  rational- 
ity; and  pours  its  energies,  not  into  the  pur- 
suit of  vain  and  futile  imaginings,  but  into  the 

282 


accomplishment  of  possible  and  immediate 
betterment.  As  Thoreau  remarked,  youth 
gets  together  the  materials  for  a  bridge  to  the 
moon,  and  maturity  uses  them  to  build  a 
wood-shed. 

In  thus  resigning  our  too  exclusive  occupa- 
tion with  dreams  we  are  not  recreant  to  any 
lofty  obligation;  we  are,  in  fact,  progressing 
upon  the  pathway  of  perfection.  We  are 
merely  discriminating  among  our  ideals,  dis- 
carding the  less  useful,  in  order  that  the  more 
valuable  may  be  cultivated  and  realized. 
The  garden  of  our  being  needs  careful  weed- 
ing and  thinning  out  and  keeping  in  order, 
just  as  a  flower  bed  does.  If  the  story  of  the 
cosmos  shows  any  intelligible  significance  or 
trend  or  purpose,  it  is  surely  this  —  a  constant 
embodying  of  thoughts  in  actions,  a  constant 
attempt  to  crown  longing  with  fulfilment,  a 
continuous  and  unflagging  effort  to  bring 
about  the  realization  of  ideals.  This  is  the 
one  strand  of  revelation  which  runs  through 
all  history  of  nature  and  man,  and  we  are  only 

283 


2CJ)e  M^UitiQ  of  ^tvuonnlitp 

in  close  relationship  with  universal  tenden- 
cies when  we  are  engaged  in  some  such  em- 
ployment—  in  putting  our  convictions  into 
practice,  in  making  our  dreams  come  true. 

Whatever  there  is  of  beauty  in  the  world 
must  have  been  imagined  before  it  was 
wrought;  whatever  there  is  of  truth  must 
have  been  postulated  before  it  was  verified; 
whatever  there  is  of  good  must  have  been  de- 
sired before  it  was  brought  about.  And  what- 
ever there  is  to  be  of  these  things  in  the  future 
for  the  benefit  of  men  can  only  come  to  pass 
in  the  same  way,  by  being  imagined  first  and 
then  made  actual. 

"  All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good,  shall  exist. 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself," 

says  Browning;  and  we  are  not  properly  men 
nor  women  until  we  give  ourselves  without 
reserve  to  the  furthering  of  that  great  cosmic 
scheme,  adding  our  energies  to  the  energy  of 
the  universe,  in  helping  beauty  to  be  born, 
and  knowledge  to  appear,   and  the  longing 

284 


spirit  to  find  happiness   and   satisfaction   in 
creative  activity  and  growth. 

Nature  herself  produces  phenomena  with 
a  seemingly  wasteful  prodigality,  but  we  have 
hardly  her  time  or  resource  at  our  command, 
and  so  we  must  economize  our  endeavours 
and  not  spend  too  many  hours  in  weaving  pat- 
terns of  ineffectual  dream.  Many  a  man 
misses  success  only  by  a  hair's-breadth,  so  lit- 
tle it  takes  to  deflect  destiny  and  turn  good 
fortune  into  defeat.  He  may  be  full  of  kind- 
liness and  unselfish  ambitions  and  splendid 
imaginings,  and  yet  never  have  realized  the 
futility  of  a  life  given  over  to  contemplation 
devoid  of  deeds.  He  spends  hours  in  musing 
upon  schemes  of  happiness  and  perfection, 
only  to  feel  the  profound  dissatisfaction 
which  must  come  with  a  surfeit  of  inaction. 
He  grows  more  and  more  timid  and  distrust- 
ful of  his  powers,  the  more  he  abstains  from 
energizing.  He  gives  his  will  no  exercise, 
and  falls  daily  into  a  state  of  feverish  hesita- 
tion or  supine  despondency.    He  deludes  him- 

285 


STfje  JHaftinfl  of  ^tv^onuUts 

self  with  childish  dreams  of  unaccomplish- 
able  greatness,  while  all  about  him  lie  actual 
benefits  and  possibilities  only  waiting  to  be 
utilized.  He  misses  the  substance  of  life  in 
reaching  for  the  shadow,  and  passes  joyless 
years  simply  because  he  does  not  know  where 
joy  resides.  The  materials  from  which  hap- 
piness can  be  built  are  ready  to  his  hand,  only 
needing  an  intelligent  will  to  put  them  in 
place;  but  he  is  too  absorbed  in  contemplat- 
ing the  plan  of  his  impalpable  architecture 
to  pay  heed  to  the  realities  of  construction. 
So  his  whole  life  crumbles  in  failure  for  want 
of  industry  and  a  sense  of  values  and  propor- 
tion. 

The  fate  of  the  man  without  ideals,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  hardly  more  to  be  envied.  He 
is  so  engrossed  in  the  execution  of  business  or 
afifairs  that  he  takes  no  time  to  look  upon  his 
work,  to  question  whether  it  is  good  or  not, 
he  brings  to  it  no  spring  of  delight  and  but 
a  petty  ambition ;  he  has  no  thought  beyond 
the  gain  of  the  moment;   he  Is  too  dull  to  see 

286 


that  his  work  can  be  anything  more  than  mere 
drudgery,  or  that  he  himself  is  not  the  mere 
sport  of  cruel  fate.  Without  a  glint  of  the 
divine  dream  of  perfection,  he  can  hardly  be 
entrusted  to  execute  the  commonest  task  as  it 
should  be  executed,  while  for  large  enter- 
prises he  is  sadly  unfitted.  But  I  must  think 
that  such  men  are  not  as  common  as  we  might 
suppose,  and  that  there  are  really  few  who 
are  not  illumined  at  times  by  fitful  gleams  of 
inspiration. 

There  are  many,  however,  belonging  to  a 
third  class,  who  have  both  industry  and  imag- 
ination, a  genius  for  practical  activity  as  well' 
as  for  ideals.  And  it  will  sometimes  happen 
that  these  characters,  aware  of  two  diverse 
trends  of  nature  in  themselves,  may  attempt 
to  dissever  these  two  tendencies,  and  to  lead 
two  lives,  one  of  every-day  prosaic  affairs, 
and  one  of  lawless  fancy,  expecting  the  unreal 
splendours  of  the  one  to  compensate  them  for 
the  actual  difficulties,  disorder,  and  discour- 
agement of  the  other.     It  is  a  similarly  pa- 

287 


thetic  fallacy  that  leads  us  to  imagine  a 
heaven  where  the  ordinary  activities  of  the 
world  do  not  obtain,  where  all  our  human 
powers  are  to  be  in  some  mysterious  way  laid 
aside  without  detracting  from  our  capacity 
for  enjoyment,  where  we  are  to  dwell  in  a 
state  of  passive  beatitude,  yet  without  any  op- 
portunity to  employ  those  energies  and  capac- 
ities whose  exercise  forms  our  only  happiness 
in  this  world. 

The  hopeless  incongruity  of  this  idea  does 
not  strike  us,  nor  does  it  often  occur  to  us  to 
emparadise  the  present,  as  a  certain  good,  and 
let  the  future  take  care  of  itself.  Yet  the 
purest  satisfaction  to  be  found  in  life  lies  in 
bringing  our  best  dreams  to  pass,  —  in  giving 
useful  form  and  timely  existence  to  what  we 
have  imagined  of  good  and  fair.  This  is  the 
service  of  the  true  idealist,  the  heroic  dreamer, 
the  man  worthy  to  dwell  in  a  world  of  rich 
possibilities,  in  fellowship  with  the  indom- 
itable designers-and-builders  of  the  immemo- 
rial past  and  the  future  that  is  to  be. 

288 


tEijt  Mi0  of  MannttB 


That  "  Manners  make  the  man  "  is  a  say- 
ing with  truth  deeper  than  mere  common- 
place observation  in  its  sound  philosophy. 
Neither  Chesterfield  himself,  that  paragon  of 
deportment,  nor  the  incomparable  Barney 
McGee,  in  his 

"  Chesterfield's  way  with  a  touch  of  the  Bowery,'* 

can  be  imagined  without  the  potent  manners 
that  were  natural  and  characteristic  and 
memorable  in  them.  For  good  manners  can- 
not be  donned  nor  laid  aside  like  a  coat. 
Whether  ceremonious  or  simple,  they  are  the 
expressive  and  appropriate  garment  and  pro- 
tection of  personality;    and  it  is  one  of  the 

289 


^i)t  J«afefn0  of  J?ttfiionalU» 

tests  for  them  at  their  best  that  they  are  ha- 
bitual and  can  never  be  misjudged  as  being 
assumed  or  affected.  The  least  touch  of  affec- 
tation or  insincerity  is  fatal  to  their  value. 
To  have  bad  manners  or  ''  no  manners "  is  to 
announce  oneself  a  boor;  but  to  use  false 
manners  is  to  betray  sad  ineptitude. 

When  manners  are  real  and  actually  reveal 
the  inner  personality,  how^  mighty  they  are! 
So  potent  are  they,  indeed,  that  wg  are  often 
carried  away  by  them,  and  our  judgment  is 
dazzled  by  our  enthusiasm,  in  response  to  the 
sv^ay  they  exercise  over  the  senses  of  common 
humanity.  The  might  of  manners  is  as  great 
as  the  majesty  of  mind  or  the  supremacy  of 
soul. 

There  is  no  denying  the  palpable  pleasure 
of  excellent  manners,  their  ease,  their  advan- 
tage, their  charm  and  grace  and  economy,  and 
the  distinction  they  confer  upon  the  plainest 
dealing.  But  a  headlong  and  headstrong  age, 
devoted  to  achievement  for  mere  achieve- 
ment's sake,  is  apt  to  consider  them  superflu- 

290 


ous  after  all  —  a  mark  of  lightness  and  arti- 
ficiality, if  not  of  effeminacy.  Our  ingrown 
virtues  are  prone  to  arrogance  and  an  over- 
weening self-reliance,  and  are  too  ready  to 
discount  the  veritable  though  subtle  power 
which  manners  possess.  Truculent  merit,  as- 
sured of  its  own  unassailable  honesty,  and  re- 
enforced  perhaps  by  an  abundance  of  physical 
vigour,  scorns  to  employ  any  suavity  of  de- 
meanour, any  graciousness  or  tact  in  present- 
ing itself,  for  fear  of  seeming  to  concede  an 
atom  of  its  own  angular  integrity. 

The  mistake  is  not  an  uncommon  nor  an 
incomprehensible  one,  but  it  is  a  grave  error 
none  the  less.  For  manners  are  not  an  arti- 
fice, but  an  art  of  true  behaviour,  inherent  in 
all  procedure,  and  as  clearly  related  to  fine 
feeling  and  wise  purpose  as  speech  is  related 
to  thought.  They  form  the  very  embodiment 
of  personality  when  it  seeks  for  social  expres- 
sion, and  are  every  whit  as  essential  as  good 
intention  or  intelligence.  Manners  are  to 
ethics  what  the  shell  is  to  the  sea-urchin,  not 

291 


merely  a  domicile  to  be  changed  at  will,  but 
a  structural  part  of  the  very  being,  —  an  out- 
ward formation  at  once  protecting  and  identi- 
fying the  individual  within.  They  interpret 
our  meaning  and  transmit  our  emotions  even 
more  truly  than  words,  thus  making  possible 
for  the  spiritual  prisoner  in  the  flesh  a  life 
of  interesting  and  pleasurable  relationships. 
No  one  is  insignificant  who  has  distinguished 
manners.  And  no  one  need  be  misunderstood 
who  will  make  his  own  manners  expressive 
of  his  meanings. 

Manners,  if  we  will  cultivate  them  as  they 
deserve,  give  us  the  means  of  escaping  from 
the  doom  of  miserable  loneliness,  unintelli- 
gence  and  brutality  which  would  otherwise 
be  ours,  and  which  is  the  fate  of  all  repressed 
and  thwarted  beings.  They  are  sanctioned 
not  only  by  a  code  of  courtesy  and  considera- 
tion for  others,  but  even  more  by  the  authentic 
joyous  freedom  which  they  offer  ourselves. 

The  master  of  good  manners  is  everywhere 
welcome  for  his  service.    Awkward  situations 

292 


©tie  MiSftt  of  JWanntrs 

vanish  at  his  approach,  embarrassments  are 
removed,  and  the  air  is  cleared  as  if  by  elec- 
tric magic.  Such  an  influential  force  is  in 
itself  no  small  asset  in  any  personal  account. 
Far  deeper,  however,  than  this  obvious  social 
power,  and  much  more  permanently  valuable, 
is  the  serene  poise  and  inward  balance  of 
spirit,  the  glad  sense  of  capability  and  satis- 
faction, which  must  always  accompany  the 
possession  of  good  manners  and  their  scrupu- 
lous practice. 

In  the  last  analysis,  to  live  without  manners 
would  be  as  detrimental  to  the  soul  as  it 
would  be  to  the  body  to  live  without  exercise. 
They  form  a  legitimate  medium  for  the  activ- 
ity of  our  spiritual  selves,  just  as  necessary  and 
just  as  adequate  as  the  world  of  work  and  play 
is  for  the  activity  of  our  physical  powers. 
And  while  manners  without  an  intelligent 
morale  are  indeed  but  a  lantern  without  a 
candle,  the  noblest  morality  without  compe- 
tent manners  to  convey  its  beneficent  purpose 
can  be  but  an  ineffectual  light. 

293 


Sije  iHaftiufl  of  J^ersonalitj? 

There  are  many  who  live  like  dark  lan- 
terns all  their  lives,  bearing  about  with  them 
a  store  of  illuminating  knowledge  which  they 
never  show.  They  are  often  of  excellent  abil- 
ity and  irreproachable  habits,  but  without 
elasticity,  generosity,  vivacity,  or  any  accus- 
tomed power  of  self-expression.  They  may 
be  philosophers,  scientists,  farmers,  or  of  any 
trade  or  occupation.  It  is  not  a  question  of 
calling,  but  of  culture  and  character.  Born 
perhaps  with  a  naturally  shrinking  or  sullen 
disposition,  that  unfortunate  tendency  has 
never  been  corrected  in  them  by  an  adequate 
cultivation  of  pliancy,  courtesy,  and  ease. 
For  lack  of  that  liberalizing  freedom  which 
manners  bestow,  they  are  never  at  home  in 
their  environment,  but  are  either  self-con- 
sciously excited  or  morose,  without  ever 
knowing  where  the  cause  of  much  of  their 
unhappiness  lies.  Careers  are  often  marred 
and  stunted  for  want  of  a  sufficient  and  cov- 
eted means  of  expression  for  admirable  pow- 
ers.   Disappointed  people,  not  realizing  what 

294 


this  lack  is,  are  filled  with  wonder  as  they  see 
themselves  gradually  outstripped  by  their  in- 
feriors, persons  of  less  force,  less  intelligence 
and  less  aspiration,  but  expressing  better  what 
they  are  and  what  they  want. 

Even  more  to  be  regretted  is  the  case  of 
those  who  deliberately  despise  manners  and  al- 
together discount  their  value,  who  find  them- 
selves well  placed  in  the  world,  with  well- 
mannered  people  all  about  them,  and  yet  from 
a  mere  exaggeration  of  the  ego,  or  from  a  lack 
of  comprehension  of  life,  or  from  an  inborn 
defect  of  taste  and  the  delicacy  of  the  artist, 
insist  that  rough-and-ready  is  always  well 
enough,  and  honesty  of  purpose  need  take  no 
account  of  the  prejudices  and  sensibilities 
through  which  it  has  to  take  its  way.  Many 
a  man  has  wrecked  a  brilliant  career  and  nul- 
lified all  his  own  great  efforts  solely  by  disre- 
gard of  good  manners.  What  to  do  to  ensure 
success  he  knew  very  well ;  why  to  do  it  he 
also  knew;  but  that  how  it  was  to  be  accom- 
plished was  of  equal  consequence  he  did  not 

295 


8r]^e  JHa^ftfng  of  JJetrsonalftg 

know  at  all.  Yet  they  symbolize  a  trinity  of 
conduct,  these  three  small  words,  and  indicate 
a  science,  a  religion,  and  an  art  of  life,  no  one 
of  which  is  greater  or  less  than  the  other. 

What  are  good  manners?  How  are  they 
to  be  enlisted,  and  what  is  the  secret  of  com- 
manding so  enviable  a  possession?  To  be 
without  them  is  to  be  unequipped  in  any  com- 
pany and  to  act  as  a  discordant  and  disquiet- 
ing, if  not  an  actually  disrupting,  element. 
To  have  them  in  perfection  is  to  possess  the 
faculty  of  putting  oneself  in  harmonious  rela- 
tion to  all  persons  and  circumstances,  and  of 
abandoning  oneself  to  the  spontaneous  re- 
quirement of  any  occasion.  Not  to  be  anxious 
for  oneself  and  so  become  self-conscious,  re- 
strained and  embarrassed,  nor  to  be  violent 
or  effusive  and  so  embarrassing  to  others,  but 
to  yield  to  time  and  place  and  situation  what- 
ever they  may  demand  in  order  to  make  the 
occasion  happy  and  free;  in  some  such  mood 
as  that  lie  the  sources  of  good  manners,  of 


296 


t!tfft  Jll(gi|t  of  M^nntvn 

courteous  bearing,  and  the  effective  presenta- 
tion of  personality. 

How  then,  you  ask,  can  the  day  be  carried 
by  one  whose  preference  and  best  judgment 
are  pitted  against  the  judgment  and  prefer- 
ence of  ten  others,  each  as  much  entitled  to 
consideration  as  oneself?  Not  by  bullying 
and  self-insistence,  for  that  would  only  whet 
their  opposition.  Not  by  palpable  truckling 
and  insincere  concessions,  for  these  would 
only  win  contempt.  Better,  by  an  even  regard 
for  the  point  at  issue  and  a  well-mannered 
devotion  to  impersonal  right. 

Those  remarkable  women  who  make  them- 
selves memorable  in  the  minds  of  their  con- 
temporaries and  in  history  by  their  social 
power,  who  hold  their  salons,  charm  their 
guests,  delight  and  sway  their  friends  with 
such  incomparable  skill,  never  accomplish 
it,  you  may  be  sure,  by  worrying  about  them- 
selves. One  drop  of  self-consciousness  would 
annul  their  magic.     Such  leaders  must  yield 


297 


with  a  happy  abandon  to  the  spirit  of  every 
occasion,  shaping  and  controlling  it  with  as 
subtle  a  mastery  and  as  essential  a  genius  as 
any  other  artist  bestows  upon  his  creations. 
How  great  and  unsuspected  are  many  of  the 
difficulties  they  must  meet  and  surmount,  yet 
how  charming  and  apparently  easy  are  the 
triumphs  they  secure! 

It  is  not  for  them  to  sit  by  and  criticize  in 
passive  enjoyment.  They  have  no  time  to 
worry  whether  or  no  their  own  toilette  is  un- 
rivalled, nor  to  sulk  if  the  soup  is  not  hot 
enough,  nor  to  flurry  over  details.  The  spirit 
of  the  hour  must  engross  all  their  attention 
and  effort  from  instant  to  instant.  All  petty 
mishaps  must  be  settled  before  or  after  the 
occasion.  While  the  function  is  in  progress 
it  demands  all  the  mettle  of  the  successful 
hostess  to  keep  the  atmosphere  alive  and  the 
interest  free.  A  canoeman  in  a  rapid  has  no 
time  to  worry  about  the  colour  of  his  hunting- 
shirt,  nor  to  fret  because  the  tobacco  was  left 
at  the  last  camping-place;    his  wits  are  busy 

298 


8rj)e  JHfflijt  of  JWannets 

enough  avoiding  the  dangers  that  are  strewn 
thick  about  him;  hidden  ledges,  jagged  rocks, 
sweeping  undercurrents,  and  climbing  waves 
absorb  all  his  attention  and  prove  or  disprove 
his  skill. 

To  forget  oneself  in  the  larger  interest  of 
the  event,  to  be  capable  of  sincere  and  serv- 
iceable abandonment  to  the  exigency  of  the 
moment,  this  is  the  secret  of  good  manners. 
In  heroic  cases  how  impressive  it  is!  What 
a  large  part  of  the  power  of  all  great  men 
have  been  their  manners!  The  traditions  of 
Alexander,  Hannibal,  Napoleon,  Pericles, 
Dante  —  of  most  of  the  worthies  of  old  or 
later  time  —  teem  with  instances  of  the  com- 
pelling potency  of  apt  and  unequivocal  man- 
ner. Such  men  had  the  art  of  doing  things, 
as  well  as  the  inclination  and  foresight.  They 
knew  the  importance  of  method,  and  never 
dreamed  of  depending  on  force  or  intelli- 
gence alone.  Good  manners  are  infectious 
and  help  our  dearest  wishes  and  ideals  to 
spread  and  germinate  in  hosts  of  other  per- 

299 


sonalities  unconsciously  in  a  primitive  way, 
unattainable  by  any  mere  argument  however 
unanswerable  or  any  compulsion  however 
overwhelming.  Our  logic  may  be  flawless, 
our  will  indomitable,  even  events  themselves 
all  in  our  favour,  and  still  success  in  any  en- 
deavour will  be  most  difficult  if  we  have  not 
the  saving  grace  of  a  competent  manner  to 
supplement  our  purposes  and  execute  our 
cherished  plans. 

There  is  no  faculty  more  indispensable  to 
success  in  the  intricate  diplomacy  of  life  than 
the  power  of  fine  abandon.  It  helps  us  to 
yield  to  the  inevitable  without  a  grouch.  If 
we  miss  our  train,  let  us  amuse  ourselves  by 
watching  the  crowd  until  the  next  one  leaves. 
When  fate  blocks  the  highroad  it  is  idle  to 
sit  down  peevishly  in  the  dust;  better  take  to 
a  circuitous  footpath  at  once  and  enjoy  the 
flowers  we  would  otherwise  have  missed. 

The  abandon  which  underlies  good  man- 
ners is  more  than  mere  self-effacement,  for  it 
requires  a  positive  appreciation  of  the  deci- 

300 


sive  claim  of  the  moment  and  an  unreluctant 
giving  of  one's  best  self  to  that  inexorable 
demand.  It  implies  a  capacity  not  only  for 
unselfishly  yielding  petty  individual  prefer- 
ence, but  for  generally  and  unfeignedly  ap- 
preciating and  furthering  a  common  cause, 
and  is  an  ennobling  trait  never  to  be  found 
in  mean  or  calculating  characters.  The  talent 
for  behaviour  varies  in  races  as  in  individuals, 
and  lends  to  those  who  possess  it  an  irresist- 
ibly endearing  charm.  It  is  a  source,  rather 
than  a  product,  of  civilization,  emancipating 
the  heart  and  liberalizing  the  mind. 

Some  of  the  most  prominent  nations  seem 
to  be  conspicuously  deficient  in  the  distinc- 
tion of  good  manners,  while  others  far  more 
primitive  appear  to  have  them  in  an  eminent 
degree.  One  cannot  help  thinking  of  the 
Latin  peoples,  with  their  inherent  grace  of 
doing,  as  conspicuously  proficient  in  this  re- 
gard, in  comparison  with  nations  of  other 
stocks,  less  volatile  and  less  alert.  The  man- 
ners of  Old  Spain  are  proverbial,  and  many 

301 


^ftt  iHlamng  of  J^etsonalfts 

a  traveller  has  felt  in  modern  Italy  or  France 
a  charm  of  gracious  manners  that  compen- 
sated for  many  inconveniences. 

An  aptitude  for  good  manners  may  appear 
as  unmistakably  among  the  illiterate  as  among 
the  most  cultivated.  The  Negro,  for  exam- 
ple, has  an  almost  incomparable  genius  for 
manners.  The  interest  which  the  men  and 
women  of  that  race  take  in  ceremonious  cour- 
tesy, in  kindly  expression,  in  the  small  amen- 
ities that  make  up,  after  all,  so  much  of  pleas- 
urable life,  in  social  behaviour  and  personal 
diplomacy,  is  a  most  marked  and  lovable 
trait.  To  ''  forget  your  manners  "  is  with 
them  a  serious  imputation,  and  we  may  profit- 
ably emulate  their  gay  and  spontaneous  ease, 
their  dramatic  sincerity  and  politic  grace. 
Have  we  not  all  known  coloured  people 
whose  manners  put  our  own  to  shame?  As 
a  child,  I  myself  had  a  Negro  nurse  in  the 
North,  a  tall  young  woman,  an  aristocrat  of 
her  race,  whose  careful  speech  and  courtly 
manner  I  remember  most  vividly,  though  I 

302 


sriie  illf0i)t  of  JHannets 

fear  I  have  often  fallen  short  of  the  example 
she  constantly  set  her  young  charge  in  the  use 
of  unfailing  politeness  and  scrupulous  Eng- 
lish. 

In  a  different  way,  of  a  different  sort,  how 
excellent  are  the  Indian's  manners  at  his  best! 
The  majestic  dignity  of  many  an  old  chief 
could  only  be  matched  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
so  surely  do  brave  blood  and  breeding  tell. 
Your  self-made  man  is  seldom  finished  to  the 
extent  of  manners.  As  compared  with  the 
finest  product  of  the  Old  World  or  the  New, 
he  is  like  a  statue  of  Rodin's,  so  different  from 
the  classic  —  very  potential,  very  significant, 
very  striking,  if  you  will,  but  not  fully 
emerged  from  crude  formlessness.  The  la- 
tent power  is  all  there,  —  the  thought  and 
originality,  —  but  they  have  not  been  brought 
to  perfection.  They  await  their  release  in 
delectable  manners,  in  finished  form  which  is 
the  ultimate  achievement  of  art. 

Good  manners  are  not  necessarily  formal 
nor    conventional    nor    correct.      They    may 

303 


often  make  themselves  felt  even  through  the 
difficult  media  of  awkwardness  and  bad 
grammar.  They  have  a  syntax  of  their  own, 
whose  principles  are  apprehended  by  the 
heart  and  transcend  the  inflexible  usage  of 
the  academy.  For  them  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  tyranny  of  custom.  At  the  right  moment, 
with  force  of  human  sincerity,  they  may 
change  the  rules  of  etiquette,  they  may  over- 
rule the  decisions  of  punctilio  with  a  look,  and 
alter  the  devices  of  convention  with  a  word. 
Under  the  exigency  of  loving  exuberance  they 
may  cast  cramping  dogmas  of  behaviour  to 
the  winds  and  disclose  a  new  revised  rubric 
of  conduct.  Good  manners  can  never  fear 
innovations,  for  their  very  existence  and  all 
their  right  procedure  are  based  upon  the  finest 
intuition  of  the  moment.  They  are  fresh 
and  refreshing  as  the  loveliest  morning,  and 
original  as  the  personality  they  clothe.  The 
best  manners,  however,  maintain  distinction 
and  originality  through  gracious  recognition 


304 


of  accepted  codes  and  graceful  adaptation  to 
them. 

Good  manners  are  a  revelation  of  good 
feelings;  and  to  have  good  feelings  and  a 
desire  to  make  them  known  is  to  possess  the 
first  elements  of  good  manners.  Actually  to 
attain  them,  two  things  more  are  needed,  —  a 
knowledge  of  usages  and  an  adequate  and 
adaptive  expressional  skill.  That  is  to  say, 
in  order  to  be  well  mannered  one  must  have 
three  requisites,  —  the  humane  prompting, 
the  understanding,  and  the  art.  When  these 
become  habitual  and  instinctive  they  result  in 
manners  that  are  well  bred  as  well  as  good. 

The  command  of  expression,  which  must 
supplement  the  generous  wish  before  one  can 
acquire  the  perfection  of  elegant  manners,  is 
something  that  people  are  wont  to  think  of 
slightingly  as  an  artificial  and  superfluous  ac- 
complishment. As  a  matter  of  fact,  excel- 
lence of  expression  is  no  less  valuable  than 
excellence  of  thought  or  intention.     It  mat- 


305 


ters  little  how  kindly  disposed  you  may  be 
in  your  heart  toward  me,  if  you  make  me  feel 
uncomfortable  by  your  brusquerie  or  boor- 
ishness.  Expression  is  quite  as  necessary, 
quite  as  incumbent  a  responsibility,  and  quite 
as  deserving  of  respect  and  cultivation,  as  the 
inward  prompting  of  kindliness  itself.  The 
best  manners  require  not  only  a  kindly  spirit 
and  intelligence  but  also  a  plastic  and  intel- 
ligent body  for  their  manifestation.  And  that 
is  not  to  be  had  at  its  best  without  care,  edu- 
cation and  training. 

To  move  and  speak  with  all  the  convincing 
beauty  of  motion  and  purity  of  tone  that  the 
best  manners  imply  requires  superior  culture 
of  body  and  voice.  There  may  be  a  natural 
aptitude  for  these  qualities  in  fortunate  in- 
stances, but  there  must  always  be  advantage 
from  education  as  well.  Rules  of  deportment 
have  their  uses,  but  they  can  no  more  produce 
good  manners  than  an  excellent  recipe  can 
produce  a  good  pudding.  Material  and  ma- 
nipulation  are  indispensable.     The   physical 

306 


training  which  facilitates  good  manners  also 
evolves  the  spirit  of  good  nature  which  must 
underlie  them.  This  is  the  real  reason  of  the 
importance  of  a  code  of  conduct  and  a  scru- 
pulous insistence  upon  the  keeping  of  that 
code.  The  best  impulses  which  arise  in  hu- 
man instinct  are  thereby  steadied  and  made 
habitual,  effective,  and  dominant. 

Instances  of  the  power  of  manners  both 
grotesque  and  beautiful  appear  about  us  every 
day.  A  young  and  popular  American  actress, 
cultivated  and  well  born,  was  recently  enter- 
tained by  her  friends  at  a  small  dinner  in  one 
of  our  best  restaurants.  She  arrived  amid  a 
flurry  of  smiling  welcomes,  and  found  a  huge 
bundle  of  American  Beauty  roses  upon  her 
table.  Heaven  knows  what  sentiment  of  ap- 
preciation she  sought  to  convey  to  her  hosts 
by  the  act,  but  she  laid  the  flowers  in  her  chair 
and  sat  upon  them  throughout  the  evening. 

A  few  months  ago  New  York  entertained 
a  Japanese  dignitary  with  much  civic  hospi- 
tality, and  among  other  notable  places  in  the 

307 


^ftt  JHafefnfl  of  Jlrrfiionalfts 

metropolis  took  him  to  see  Grant's  tomb  on 
Riverside  Drive.  Instead  of  turning  away 
when  his  visit  to  the  resting-place  of  the  illus- 
trious dead  was  over^  he  kept  his  face  toward 
the  monument,  walking  backward  down  the 
steps  and  well  past  the  immediate  vicinity, 
as  a  mark  of  respect  to  a  great  man  and  to 
a  nation's  pride  in  his  memory!  To  our  more 
abrupt  and  hurried  way  of  thinking  there 
may  seem  to  be  a  touch  of  the  fantastic  in  such 
an  elaborate  ceremonialism,  but  on  deeper 
consideration  how  fearlessly  natural  and  spon- 
taneous we  feel  that  tribute  of  reverence  to 
have  been!  To  be  rude  or  inexpressive  where 
some  instinctive  manifestation  of  gentle  cour- 
tesy were  more  natural  as  well  as  more  be- 
coming is  to  stifle  the  springs  of  human  cour- 
age and  beneficence  at  their  inmost  source. 

That  a  generous  and  general  practice  of 
good  manners  stimulates  and  disseminates  fine 
aspiration,  nobility  of  character,  and  grace  of 
living,  is  beyond  question;  and  until  appre- 
ciation   of    that   truth    becomes   more   wide- 

308 


spread  among  individuals  and  nations,  not  all 
the  sterling  qualities  of  heart  and  brain  can 
avert  the  consequences  of  rudeness,  nor  justify 
arrogant  infatuation  with  a  mannerless  age.    ■ 


2>09 


XV 

Uu  of  ©ut-of-Boot0 


That  we  should  need  to  recall  the  use  of 
out-of-doors  is  of  itself  a  criticism  of  our  con- 
temporary mode  of  life  and  a  confession  of 
our  indoor  dangers.  So  habited  have  we  be- 
come to  living  under  roofs  and  behind  glass, 
that  living  out-of-doors  is  strange  and  un- 
usual. We  turn  to  it  only  occasionally  and 
then  as  to  a  novelty,  as  if  we  were  about  to 
make  a  journey  into  a  foreign  country.  The 
wholesome  sting  of  a  sharp  autumn  morning 
strikes  fear  into  our  flinching  bones,  and  we 
huddle  and  dodge  from  cover  to  cover,  as  if 
the  open  heaven  were  our  enemy.     At  the 

310 


first  drop  of  temperature  from  torrid  summer 
heat,  we  rush  for  overcoats  and  clamber  into 
closed  cars,  in  very  fright  at  the  freshening 
of  God's  breath  upon  us. 

The  old  Germanic  superstition  as  to  the 
poison  of  the  night  dissipates  but  slowly.  You 
may  still  find  many  persons  who  will  not  sleep 
with  their  windows  open  for  fear  of  the 
"  night  air,"  nor  within  reach  of  moonlight 
for  fear  of  lunacy.  In  the  West  Indies  the 
Negroes  shut  themselves  up  to  sleep  in  their 
cabins,  with  every  door  and  window  closely 
battened  down  to  keep  out  the  evil  spirits, 
despite  the  beauty  and  warmth  of  the  tropic 
night.  The  luminous  wheeling  stars  and  the 
great  shield  of  the  moon  cannot  tempt  them 
to  leave  so  much  as  a  chink  uncovered.  It  is 
piteous  to  have  such  unwholesome  fears.  Our 
good  friends,  the  skeptical  doctors,  are  teach- 
ing us  better,  with  their  fresh-air  treatment 
of  pneumonia,  tuberculosis,  and  kindred 
scourges. 

Do  not  let  us  be  afraid  of  out-of-doors! 
311 


sri^e  Jtlal^fng  of  petri^onalits 

After  all,  there  is  our  freest  safety.  We  were 
born  and  nurtured  in  the  open  for  aeons  before 
cities  were  thought  of  or  suburbs  invented. 
We  had  ridge-poles,  it  is  true,  and  hearth- 
stones, tepees,  and  wigwams  and  igloos,  but 
we  had  no  sewer  gas  nor  soft  coal  smoke  nor 
dinning  noise  of  streets.  Our  life  was  derived 
from  a  nature  whose  sunlight  and  oxygen  are 
unlimited,  where  pure  water  is  abundant,  and 
where  food,  if  scarce,  is  at  least  not  adulter- 
ated. We  have  harnessed  the  earth  and  mod- 
ified her  powers  for  our  own  uses,  making  it 
possible  for  a  thousand  men  to  live  where 
formerly  hardly  a  hundred  could  survive,  but 
we  have  not  been  altogether  wise  with  our 
cleverness;  and  in  the  flush  of  triumphant 
civilization  we  are  in  danger  of  forgetting 
some  of  the  old  essential  benefits  of  humanity. 
Air  and  sunlight  and  water  in  abundant 
purity  are  built  into  the  tissue  of  these  bodies 
of  ours  by  the  secret  chemistry  of  nature,  and 
there  can  never  be  any  manufacturing  a  sat- 
isfactory existence  without  a  plentiful  supply 

312 


2rtit  Urn  of  ®ut=of=:3l9oots 

of  them.  Nothing  takes  their  place  and  we 
only  cheat  ourselves  if  we  think  to  do  without 
them.  We  may  put  up  with  factory-made 
commodities  and  all  the  impositions  of  com- 
merce, if  we  will,  but  there  is  no  substitute 
for  open  air.  It  is  not  only  a  choice  between 
outdoors  and  indoors,  it  is  a  choice  between 
out-of-doors  and  death. 

It  is  more  a  matter  of  self-preservation  than 
of  anything  else.  In  the  universe  of  animal 
existence  to  which  we  belong,  the  great  nat- 
ural elements  and  laws  are  inescapable.  It 
is  not  strange,  since  we  are  sprung  from  the 
operation  of  these  laws  and  forces  and  ele- 
ments, that  we  must  inevitably  lose  through 
any  divorcing  or  alienating  of  ourselves  from 
their  beneficent  powers.  We  are  not  wholly 
animal,  it  is  true,  but  we  are  fundamentally 
so;  and  our  spiritual  strain  which  we  so  cher- 
ish and  seek  to  cultivate  can  never  be  made 
to  grow  away  from  its  physical  base  and 
source.  Surely  it  is  short-sighted  to  wantonly 
weaken  and  destroy  that  strain  through  which 

3-^3 


our  being  is  materialized  and  kept  growing. 
There  can  be  no  saving  the  soul  alive,  either 
for  men  or  nations,  if  the  body  be  allowed  to 
sicken  in  ignorance  or  neglect.  And  yet  how 
people  cling  to  the  fallacy  that  growth  of  the 
spirit  and  the  mind  may  be  induced  without 
regard  to  the  health  and  normal  wealth  of  the 
body,  through  which  they  move  and  learn  and 
have  their  being.  As  well  believe  that  roses 
will  grow  without  roots,  as  that  human  happi- 
ness and  know^ledge  can  ever  reach  their  de- 
sired perfection  in  a  puny  race  or  in  an  inade- 
quate physique. 

To  breathe  deeply,  to  sleep  soundly,  to  walk 
well,  to  be  unflurried  and  undespairing,  to 
take  from  the  bounty  of  the  earth  only  so 
much  as  will  serve  just  needs,  —  these  are 
some  of  the  things  we  learn  at  nature's  knee 
and  forget  in  our  greed. 

One  need  not  be  a  detractor  of  our  own 
time  to  praise  justly  the  more  primitive  life 
of  the  open.  Life  in  ages  gone  was  more 
perilous   than    it   is   to-day.      In   those   small 

314 


JJTtie  Wiut  of  ®ttt=of=:®ootfii 

classic  and  mediaeval  cities^  whose  names  are 
surrounded  with  such  picturesque  glamour, 
life  was  doubtless  more  unwholesome  than  in 
our  own  Babylons.  In  our  sanitation,  our  phi- 
lanthropy, and  our  multifold  conveniences, 
we  have  outstripped  them  beyond  measure; 
and  yet  there  remain  the  elemental  needs  to 
be  remembered  and  respected.  Our  social 
customs,  habits,  usages,  our  personal  require- 
ments and  fashions  of  living,  all  change  with 
the  centuries;  our  ideals,  thoughts,  senti- 
ments, ambitions  have  changed  many  times 
with  changing  civilizations;  but  the  great 
primordial  human  hungers  and  wants  are  no 
other  to-day  than  they  were  in  Eden.  And  it 
is  really  in  unconscious  obedience  to  those 
deeper  necessities  that  we  rebel  against  many 
of  the  demands  which  civilization  imposes 
upon  us,  and  turn  to  nature  for  relief  from 
the  petty  exactions  and  disordering  complex- 
ities of  life  with  which  we  have  become  en- 
cumbered. 
"  Going  back  to  nature,"  does  not  mean 
315 


ari^e  JHaWnfl  of  IHvuonalits 

going  back  to  savagery  nor  to  barbarism  nor 
to  any  pestilential  past;  it  only  means  open- 
ing the  doors  and  windows,  and  stepping  out 
to  reclaim  each  his  share  of  the  riches  of 
earth's  sufficiency,  the  leisure  and  sunlight 
and  gladness  which  have  been  from  the  begin- 
ning only  waiting  to  be  utilized  and  enjoyed. 
♦  We  go  back  to  nature  every  time  w^e  take  a 
deep  breath  and  stop  worrying,  every  time  we 
allow  instinct  to  save  us  from  some  foolish 
indiscretion  of  greed  or  heedlessness  or  bad 
habit.  A  tiled  bath-room  is  not  essentially  a 
menace  to  health;  neither  is  a  roll-top  desk, 
nor  a  convenient  electric  light,  nor  any  one 
of  the  hundred  luxuries  we  have  become  hab- 
ited to.  As  the  good  emperor  might  have 
remarked,  "  Even  in  a  modern  hotel  life  may 
be  lived  well."  All  of  our  triumphs  of  me- 
chanical genius  are  so  many  means  of  living 
the  more  easily,  if  only  we  make  use  of  them 
appreciatively,  instead  of  being  mastered  and 
undone  by  them.  When  a  luxury  becomes  a 
burden  it  ceases  to  be  a  luxury.    That  would 

316 


seem  to  be  a  very  simple  piece  of  logic,  yet 
it  is  not  always  easy  to  follow,  and  we  are  apt 
to  cling  to  our  supposed  luxuries  long  after 
they  have  grown  to  be  nuisances.  It  is  chiefly 
a  matter  of  selection,  adaptation,  and  elimina- 
tion, of  taking  what  is  good  and  discarding 
what  is  harmful  in  the  great  flood  of  com- 
modities which  civilization  brings  to  our  serv- 
ice. 

The  benefit  of  out-of-doors  is  not  that  it 
takes  us  away  from  civilization,  but  that  it 
restores  us  to  ourselves.  Its  profound  essen- 
tial satisfactions  build  themselves  into  the 
character  and  become  part  of  the  personal- 
ity. All  that  suits  out-of-doors  is  so  elemental 
and  normal  that  living  within  its  mighty 
influence  must  gladden  and  normalize  and 
deepen  our  natural  selves,  renewing  our 
worth  in  temper,  in  health,  and  in  sanity. 

Houses  were  made  for  shelter,  not  for  con- 
finement; for  freedom,  not  restraint;  they 
were  intended  to  enlarge  our  sphere  of  activ- 
ities, not  to  diminish  them.     They  were  to 

317 


provide  us  a  protection  against  the  elements, 
so  that  busy,  happy  life  could  go  on  unhin- 
dered by  extremes  of  climate.  After  food, 
shelter  is  the  first  requisite,  —  the  first  trace 
of  himself  which  man  imposes  upon  the  nat- 
ural world,  and  the  most  primitive  and  last- 
ing evidence  of  the  handiwork  which  grows 
into  all  the  arts  of  all  the  centuries.  Houses 
foster  the  family  and  facilitate  progress  if  we 
do  not  abuse  their  protection.  We  have  with- 
drawn into  their  still  and  comfortable  re- 
cesses, slept  in  their  warm  chambers,  toasted 
ourselves  over  their  easy  fires,  read  by  their 
unflickering  lights,  and  eaten  from  their  over- 
bountiful  boards  so  long,  that  we  are  grown 
pale,  timid,  peevish,  and  thankless  withal. 

We  have  kept  ourselves  away  from  the 
wind  and  the  sun  and  the  lashing  rain,  from 
the  feel  of  the  earth  under  foot  and  the  sense 
of  the  leaves  and  stars  overhead,  until  we  no 
longer  know  the  keen  and  simple  joys  of  being 
alive.  We  have  set  up  barriers  against  the 
inclemency  of  nature,  and  cowered  before  her 

318 


severe  austerity,  until  now  we  have  forgot- 
ten how  indispensable  is  all  her  kindly  nur- 
ture, how  tonic  her  rugged  ways,  how  full 
of  solace  her  assuaging  calm. 

Houses  were  only  made  to  live  in  when  it 
is  too  cold  or  too  hot  or  too  wet  to  live  out-of- 
doors.  At  any  other  time  out-of-doors  is  best. 
Out-of-doors  is  the  only  place  where  a  man 
can  breathe  and  sleep  and  eat  to  perfection, 
keeping  the  blood  red  in  the  cheek;  and  those 
are  the  three  prime  factors  in  the  life  of  hu- 
mans, the  three  first  great  rhythms  of  our  be- 
ing. It  is  almost  impossible  to  get  enough 
fresh  pure  air  inside  of  four  walls,  and  it  is 
not  possible  at  all  to  keep  the  wholesome  flush 
of  health  in  rooms  unvisited  by  daily  sun  and 
breeze. 

To  sleep  out-of-doors  for  a  month  is  better 
than  a  pampered  trip  to  Europe.  In  this  cli- 
mate one  must  have  a  roof,  of  course;  but 
any  piazza  that  is  open  to  three-quarters  of 
the  heavens  will  serve  as  a  bedroom ;  and  the 
gain  in  happiness  is  unbelievable.     With  an 

3^9 


abundant  supply  of  good  air  sleep  soon  grows 
normal,  deep,  untroubled  and  refreshing,  so 
that  we  open  our  eyes  upon  the  world  as 
gladly  as  a  hunter  or  any  pagan  shepherd  in 
the  morning  of  the  w^orld.  Too  often  we 
grow  anxious  and  flustered  and  harried  with 
distractions;  the  goblin  of  worry  becomes  an 
inseparable  companion  indoors;  and  we 
groan  in  spirit  that  the  universe  is  all  awry; 
when  in  truth  half  a  dozen  deep  breaths  of 
clean  air  lend  a  different  complexion  to  life. 
Our  anxieties  are  nearly  all  artificial,  and  are 
bred  indoors,  under  the  stifling  oppression  of 
walls  and  roofs,  to  the  maddening  clangour 
of  pavements,  and  a  day  in  the  open  will  often 
dispel  them  like  a  bad  dream. 

We  are  crowded  and  hustled  and  irritated 
to  the  point  of  physical  desperation.  In  our 
thoroughfares  and  marts,  our  tenements  and 
tiny  apartments,  our  shops  and  street  cars,  we 
revert  pretty  closely  to  the  jostling  of  the 
original  herd  and  pack.  Is  it  any  wonder  that 
we  should  throw  back  to  a  primitive  ruthless- 

320 


SCJje  JKse  of  0uUoumoovu 

ness  in  the  stress  and  haste  of  competition? 
Can  you  ask  for  manners  in  the  midst  of  a 
scrimmage,  or  look  for  moral  steadiness  in  a 
nervous  wreck?  With  more  air  and  sun  and 
ground,  we  find  fewer  instances  of  immoral- 
ity and  despair.  For  a  return  to  nature  is  a 
return  to  good  nature. 

True,  we  cannot  at  once  incontinently  leave 
our  tasks  and  wander  at  will  out  into  the 
green  world  whenever  the  wind  sets  from  a 
pleasant  quarter;  but  for  all  that,  there  are 
many  steps  that  we  may  take  toward  reestab- 
lishing our  divine  heritage  and  rightful  por- 
tion in  the  delectable  commonwealth  of  out- 
of-doors.  And  the  best  use  we  can  make  of  it 
will  surely  consist  in  wholesome  normalizing 
exercise,  —  not  necessarily  in  living  out-of- 
doors  more  than  we  do  at  present,  but  in 
living  there  more  wholesomely  and  naturally. 
A  drive  through  the  park,  to  take  the  least 
promising  example,  may  be  made  a  means  of 
recuperation  and  health,  or  it  may  be  almost 
worthless.    To  sit  well  in  the  carriage,  breath- 

321 


ing  freely  and  deeply,  is  one  thing;  to  sink 
among  the  cushions,  hardly  breathing  at  all, 
is  quite  another.  Many  a  woman  takes  her 
afternoon  drive  with  almost  no  benefit  at  all, 
—  except  to  the  horses.  Just  so  one  may  walk 
or  ride  or  play  tennis  with  such  unfortunate 
habits  of  motion  as  to  gain  little  good  from 
the  exertion;  while  a  better  trained  physique, 
with  less  expenditure  of  time  and  energy, 
would  easily  obtain  more  beneficial  results. 

Out-of-doors  is  the  birthright  of  every  man 
and  woman  alive.  The  roads  are  free,  if  the 
land  is  not  yet;  there  is  plenty  of  life  in  the 
open  air  to  be  had  for  the  taking;  and  with 
a  little  thought  we  may  all  increase  our  share 
in  that  inheritance  of  uncounted  benefit.  No 
land  has  a  finer  out-of-doors  than  this.  Win- 
ter or  summer,  there  is  hardly  a  corner  of  it 
that  will  not  afiford  you  tolerant  and  kindly 
treatment,  and  reward  your  confidence  a 
thousand  fold.  The  seaboard,  the  mountains, 
the  great  plains,  the  farmland  valleys,  the 
noble   rivers,   the   forests,   the  deserts  —  they 

322 


srtie  Wlut  of  ©ttt=of=3ioorfii 

are  all  good  to  live  in.  Where  we  have  not 
polluted  and  profaned  them,  they  retain  the 
purity  and  majesty  of  clean  creation;  and 
they  are  ever  waiting  to  reinforce  us  with 
their  nobility  and  strength,  to  soothe  our  fret- 
ted nerves,  to  console  us  with  their  leisurely 
endurance,  to  inspire  us  again  with  something 
of  the  natural  dignity  we  have  lost.  They 
will  discount  our  clever  practices  and  shifty 
ways,  but  they  will  teach  us  instead  methods 
of  thought  and  conduct,  a  poise  of  character, 
better  befitting  our  preeminence  as  human 
beings.  When  we  breathe  and  move  freely 
once  more,  we  shall  begin  to  realize  our  pos- 
sibilities of  greater  happiness. 


3^3 


^\)t  dominion  of  3oij 


It  does  not  need  a  philosopher  to  note  how 
volatile  happiness  is,  how  variable  and  seem- 
ingly beyond  control.  Its  sources  are  hidden 
among  the  springs  of  life;  its  volume  and 
current,  because  they  are  so  largely  unmate- 
rial  and  essential,  appear  uncertain;  and  like 
those  rivers  w^hich  lose  themselves  in  the  des- 
ert, its  radiant  stream  is  often  dissipated  in 
arid  distractions  and  confusing  cares.  Pure 
as  a  mountain  brook  in  its  origin,  it  too  often 
frets  itself  away  in  tortuous  channels,  mud- 
died by  passions,  perverted  by  mistakes,  or 
contaminated  by  resentment  and  regret. 

Happiness  is  an  essence  w^hich  is  so  readily 
extracted  from  life  at  times  that  one  might 

324 


®i^e  Bomfnfon  of  31  os 

suppose  its  formula  easy  to  discover.  But  it 
is  not  so.  Being  secretes  happiness  out  of  ex- 
perience as  the  bees  secrete  honey  from  the 
flowers  of  the  meadows;  not  promiscuously, 
of  course,  nor  indiscriminately,  and  always 
with  consummate  ease.  The  process  of  its 
distillation,  like  the  production  of  honey,  is 
veritable  magic,  and  belongs  among  the  nat- 
ural mysteries. 

We  know  in  truth  very  little  of  the  making 
of  this  divine  extract;  for  the  most  part  we 
are  willing  to  take  it  without  question  and 
spend  it  without  care;  and  we  are  almost 
equally  ignorant  of  any  rules  for  its  preserva- 
tion, though  it  escapes  more  quickly  than  any 
other  aroma.  It  may  appear  in  response  to 
the  wizardries  of  beauty,  the  summons  of 
truth,  or  the  impetuous  demands  of  desire; 
and  seemingly  without  rhyme  or  reason  it 
may  depart  as  quickly  and  inevitably  as  it 
came,  leaving  only  the  vaguest  recognition  of 
the  conditions  that  invite  it.  Certain  general 
laws    which    govern    happiness     are     plain 

325 


enough  for  all  to  understand,  and  philoso- 
phers have  essayed  to  formulate  its  compo- 
nents and  stimuli;  but  how  are  we  to  com- 
mand it  with  any  surety,  or  guard  against  its 
dissipation? 

With  such  knowledge  we  should  be  lords  of 
as  much  of  the  empire  of  destiny  as  any  sane 
man  need  wish.  This  is  that  secret  which  no 
oracle  ever  could  declare,  that  enigma  which 
no  sage  could  ever  solve,  the  one  problem 
which  absorbs  the  emperor  and  the  hod-car- 
rier, the  philanthropist  and  the  vagrant,  the 
duchess  and  the  drab,  —  every  living  figure 
in  the  whole  tatterdemalion  pageant  of  hu- 
manity,—  with  equal  persistence  and  almost 
equal  disappointment.  You  may  write  me 
learned  treatises  and  expound  pedantic  mo- 
ralities on  the  nature  and  sources  of  happi- 
ness, but  what  I  want  is  a  plain  answer  to  a 
plain  question.  How  can  I  be  happy  at  will? 

If  I  commit  murder  or  theft  or  any  crime 
against  my  fellow  mortal,  it  is  easy  to  foresee 
that  I  shall  be  unhappy;  for  other  beings  are 

326 


©tir  Bomfnfon  of  3Jo» 

only  extensions  of  myself,  part  of  the  same 
spirit,  parcel  of  the  same  stuff,  and  I  know 
instinctively  that  any  violence  against  them  is 
an  outrage  against  the  laws  of  my  own  being 
and  an  offence  to  my  own  spirit.  You  need 
not  explain  to  me  that  nothing  but  unhappi- 
ness  can  spring  from  evil  doing.  I  know  that 
very  well  already.  For  I  know  better  than 
any  one  can  tell  me  that  the  evil  deed  is  born 
in  blackness  of  heart,  and  that  happiness  only 
visits  a  soul  innocent  of  malice.  Again,  if  I 
violate  my  instincts,  I  know  I  shall  be  un- 
happy,—  if  I  eat  or  drink  inordinately,  if  I 
am  unreasonable  and  wayward  and  lawless  in 
my  habits,  and  fail  to  give  rational  care  to  my 
physical  well-being.  As  a  child  I  learned 
that  I  must  not  put  my  hand  in  the  fire;  as 
a  man  I  am  learning  that  I  must  not  harm 
any  one  else ;  and  the  first  law  does  not  seem 
any  more  arbitrary  to  me  than  the  second. 
They  both  seem  natural  and  inevitable  and 
I  begin  to  perceive  that  we  cannot  be  happy 
in  transgression. 

327 


Not  to  transgress,  however,  is  hardly 
enough  to  ensure  happiness.  The  laws  of  in- 
hibition are  not  guide  posts  on  the  road  to 
the  land  of  heart's  desire,  but  only  danger 
signals;  they  point  nowhere,  they  are  only 
warnings  against  disaster,  and  while  they  may 
save  the  wayfarer  from  destruction,  they  ad- 
vance him  little  on  the  highway  of  perfection. 
You  may  abstain  from  every  indiscretion,  vio- 
late no  rule  of  health,  and  still  be  an  ineffec- 
tual stay-at-home.  You  may  keep  every  one 
of  the  shalt-not  commandments,  and  remain 
a  gloomy  prig  for  all  that. 

In  the  garden  of  the  heart  innocence  and 
abstinence  are  hardly  the  finest  flowers  of  con- 
duct; they  are  but  cleanly  soil  from  which 
such  flowers  may  be  induced  to  spring.  The 
virtue  of  a  man  is  the  strength  of  his  essen- 
tial spirit,  not  his  mere  harmlessness  or  pas- 
sivity. Just  as  the  only  test  for  the  virtue  of 
salt  is  its  savour,  so  the  only  test  for  the  vir- 
tue of  the  heart  is  its  joy.  There  is  no  happi- 
ness for  us  humans  save  in  the  normal  exer- 

328 


sri^e  dominion  of  3Joff 

cise  of  our  senses,  our  intelligence,  our  emo- 
tions. If  we  claim  that  privilege  for  all  men, 
we  shall  have  an  ample  serviceable  creed 
enough,  and  if  we  attempt  to  secure  it,  we 
shall  have  a  happy  enough  task. 

The  direct  pursuit  of  pleasure,  or  to  de- 
mand happiness,  may  indeed  be  futile;  but 
the  instinctive  pursuit  of  our  activities  is  not 
futile,  unless  it  be  ill-advised;  and  from  such 
pursuit,  when  it  is  wisely  ordered,  some  es- 
sence of  happiness  is  inevitably  derived. 
Happiness  comes  to  us  not  as  a  reward  of 
merit,  but  as  a  proof  of  worth.  It  is  not  a 
recompense  for  abnegation,  but  a  natural  sat- 
isfaction in  normal  life,  an  incalculable  result 
of  real  deserving.  It  is  not  to  be  found  in 
violation  of  fundamental  laws,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  those  laws,  so  far  from  being  arbi- 
trary restrictions  imposed  upon  the  human 
spirit,  are  merely  the  inherent  laws  of  its  own 
development  and  growth. 

The  Dominion  of  Joy  is  divided  into  three 
provinces  or  states  —  the  state  of  mind,  or  the 

329 


8rtie  iWal^fng  of  ^tvnonulits 

Province  of  Truth,  the  state  of  spirit,  or  the 
Province  of  Goodness,  and  the  state  of  body, 
or  the  Province  of  Beauty.  Like  any  worldly 
realm,  its  boundaries  are  invisible  and  its  in- 
terrelations various.  There  is  no  saying 
where  the  province  of  sense  ends  and  the 
province  of  mind  begins,  nor  where  either  of 
them  joins  the  province  of  soul.  These  de- 
marcations exist  in  theory  only,  on  the  map 
of  the  imagination.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you 
may  pass  from  one  to  the  other  and  never 
know  it,  just  as  you  may  cross  the  line  from 
New  York  into  Connecticut  without  perceiv- 
ing any  difference.  While  each  phase  of  be- 
ing may  have  its  own  peculiar  traits  and  beau- 
ties and  resources,  with  its  own  necessary  laws 
and  customs,  industries  and  appurtenances, 
they  are  all  equally  under  an  interactive  gov- 
ernment throughout  —  the  great  triune  code 
of  manners,  morals  and  meditations. 

The  Dominion  of  Joy  is  as  wide  as  the  uni- 
verse in  which  we  dwell.  Wherever  the  foot 
may  tread  and  the  soul  subsist,  there  its  be- 

330 


srtie  dominion  of  3Jos 

neficent  power  may  extend.  Its  terminus  is 
no  nearer  than  the  outmost  star  that  glimmers 
within  the  sweep  of  vision.  A  flower  by  the 
wayside,  a  moonrise  over  the  roofs  of  the  city, 
a  quiet  sunset  among  the  purple  hills,  the  sud- 
den flash  of  a  passing  glance  in  the  street,  the 
scent  of  some  remembered  perfume,  a  breath 
of  spring  wind  stirring  the  blind  at  an  open 
window,  the  blessing  of  a  beggar,  the  sight 
of  a  masterpiece  in  a  museum,  news  of  an  old 
friend,  a  strain  of  music,  the  skill  of  an  acro- 
bat, or  a  seasonable  word  —  any  one  of  these 
ordinary  occurrences,  if  we  be  capable  of  ap- 
preciating it,  may  transport  us  instantly  to 
the  borders  of  this  dominion,  invest  us  with 
a  cloak  of  happiness,  and  disclose  to  us  a  mo- 
mentary glimpse  of  immortality. 

The  Dominion  of  Joy  is  neither  a  despot- 
ism nor  a  democracy,  yet  it  is  wider  than  any 
commonalty  and  finer  than  any  aristocracy. 
It  confers  upon  its  citizens  the  freedom  of  the 
world,  and  gives  them  a  distinction  of  bear- 
ing, an  air  of  radiance,  a  compelling  power, 

331 


2CJie  MuUlns  of  ^tvuonulits 

such  as  no  other  aristocracy  can  bestow. 
There  may  be  degrees  in  its  social  order,  but 
the  poorest  of  those  who  live  within  its  rule 
is  a  more  charming  figure  than  joyless  em- 
peror or  sombre  king. 

Yet  the  great  ones  of  the  earth  may  be 
greatest  in  its  peerage,  too;  for  as  the  blame- 
less Roman  said,  '^  Even  in  a  palace  life  may 
be  lived  well."  Joydom  is  not  founded  on  the 
fanaticism  of  scullions,  nor  on  the  haughty 
ruthlessness  of  the  strong,  but  on  the  basis  of 
every  man's  normality.  It  has  no  peculiar 
costume,  no  compulsory  language,  no  racial 
features,  no  traits  of  character  by  which  its 
inhabitants  may  be  told.  Its  only  signs  are 
the  laughing  lip,  the  kindling  eye,  the  kindly 
hand,  and  the  foot  that  is  light  upon  the  pave- 
ment. 

Inhabitants  of  the  Dominion  of  Joy  belong 
to  a  primitive  tribe  whose  type  is  universal. 
They  may  vary  in  stature  and  in  colour,  in 
contour  and  in  motion,  in  gesture,  voice  and 
habit;   they  may  be  black  or  red  or  yellow  or 

332 


SCfie  mominlon  of  3Jo» 

white,  Hindu,  Malay,  Celt,  Slav  or  Negro; 
but  under  these  trivial  marks  of  latitude  they 
are  all  of  one  breed,  betrayed  by  the  eager 
step  and  the  radiant  glance.  Though  speech 
may  be  a  babel  of  many  languages,  there  is 
no  mistaking  the  elemental  meaning  of  the 
tone  of  happiness,  the  inflexion  which  signi- 
fies content.  Before  mind  had  anything  to  say 
to  mind  or  any  words  to  say  it  in,  heart  had 
its  confidences  with  its  fellow  heart  in  soft 
caress  and  crooning  love-note.  And  to-day, 
so  lasting  are  these  traditions  of  joy,  that  pro- 
testation and  eloquence  are  superfluous  be- 
tween friends,  and  vain  between  those  who 
have  become  estranged. 

Beauty  is  the  common  tongue  in  the  Do- 
minion of  Joy,  —  beauty  with  its  elements  of 
truth  and  its  finish  of  graciousness,  —  and 
speech  in  that  language  has  an  instant  pass- 
port to  the  hearts  of  men.  No  expression  of 
beauty  can  fail  of  appreciation;  no  matter 
what  its  dialect  may  be,  its  welcome  is  secure. 
Its    place    prepared,    its    worth    established. 

333 


Eftt  JHafting  of  l^tvnonnUts 

Moreover,  those  who  give  their  days  and 
nights  to  the  study  and  practice  of  beauty,  to 
the  creation  of  loveliness  in  any  form,  are 
thereby  naturalized  in  the  Dominion  of  Joy 
and  take  on  unconsciously  the  guise  of  its 
gladsomeness.  Those  who  cause  beauty  to 
gladden  in  the  world  are  rewarded  by  the 
afterglow  of  happiness  in  themselves,  so  near 
is  dust  to  dream,  so  truly  are  human  achieve- 
ments a  part  of  the  divine. 

There  are  many  roads  that  lead  to  the  Do- 
minion of  Joy  through  its  different  provinces, 
some  of  them  broad  and  sumptuous,  others 
inconspicuous  and  half  hidden  from  view, 
some  thronged  day  long  with  travellers,  oth- 
ers unfrequented  save  by  an  occasional  way- 
farer. But  those  who  are  really  wise  confine 
themselves  to  no  single  province  of  the  great 
realm,  for  they  know  there  is  an  unwritten  law 
of  the  Dominion  to  the  effect  that  no  one  shall 
be  allowed  to  thrive  exclusively  in  any  one 
of  its  precincts,  but  all  who  grow  within  its 
borders  must  share  in  all  its  influences  and 

334 


JCl^e  dominion  of  3Joff 

have  some  knowledge  of  all  its  resources. 
Sensualists  have  tried  to  preempt  the  delight- 
ful Province  of  Beauty;  pedants  have  at- 
tempted to  monopolize  the  Province  of 
Truth;  and  bigots  have  endeavoured  to  usurp 
the  Province  of  Goodness;  but  all  have  found 
their  purposes  equally  vain.  For  it  matters 
not  by  what  road  one  may  first  approach  the 
Dominion  of  Joy,  once  within  its  borders, 
one  must  learn  allegiance  to  its  federal  pow- 
ers, and  not  merely  to  its  partial  interests. 

The  clamour  of  the  imagination  and  the 
senses  for  pleasure,  the  call  of  the  mind  for 
satisfaction  in  reason,  and  the  cry  of  the  spirit 
for  loving-kindness,  often  seem  to  imply  a 
distraction  in  our  nature.  In  reality  these  are 
not  diverse  demands,  nor  contradictory,  but 
essentially  identical,  variously  conveying  the 
single  wish  of  the  personality  for  happiness. 
And  never  by  degrading  any  one  of  them,  nor 
by  debauching  any  one,  can  anything  more 
than  a  damaged  and  perishable  happiness  be 
obtained  or  preserved.     For  happiness,  that 

33S 


Stie  il«aite{n0  of  ^tvnonnllts 

simple  test  of  successful  effort,  is  abiding  only 
where  it  is  harmonious  and  where  it  may 
freely  range  through  all  the  regions  of  being. 
It  cannot  be  obtained  from  any  pursuit  of 
the  intellectual  life,  however  single-minded 
and  diligent,  if  that  pursuit  is  carried  on  at 
the  expense  of  health  and  generosity.  No 
following  of  the  so-called  holy  life  can  secure 
happiness  if  the  body  be  marred  and  broken 
with  wilful  tyrannies  and  degradation,  and 
the  mind  insulted  and  restrained  from  its  law- 
ful reasonableness  and  natural  convictions. 
Much  less  can  the  nimble  senses  cling  to  hap- 
piness for  more  than  a  moment  at  a  time,  re- 
gardless of  our  respect  for  truth  and  our  love 
of  impersonal  goodness.  Happiness  is  at 
home  only  where  soul  and  mind  help  flesh, 
and  flesh  helps  them. 

It  is  not  easy  to  retain  the  franchise  of  this 
Dominion  of  Joy,  though  no  mortal  is  by 
birth  ineligible  for  that  fine  privilege.  Some 
indeed  are  born  to  it  by  good  fortune  of  in- 
heritance;   and  even  they  may  lose  it  by  per- 

33^ 


JTi^e  Homfnfon  of  3os 

versity  or  neglect.  But  those  who  do  not  con- 
form so  easily  to  its  radiant  governance,  its 
serene  and  fostering  atmosphere,  may  never- 
theless prolong  their  sojourn  there,  if  they 
will  take  some  precautions,  and  be  at  some 
pains  to  achieve  so  delectable  and  so  noble  a 
triumph. 

Happiness,  let  us  admit,  is  not  a  relative 
thing,  as  pleasure  is,  but  a  positive  condition 
of  the  spirit  regardless  of  surroundings,  a 
fundamental  state  of  being  in  which  normal 
personality  finds  the  justification  and  value  of 
life.  A  man  may  be  happy  in  the  face  of 
death,  and  wretched  amid  luxury.  Frail 
women  have  gone  to  the  scaffold  for  a  be- 
loved cause  with  a  smile  upon  their  lips,  and 
sturdy  men  have  dragged  out  wretched  years 
in  palatial  discontent.  You  may  environ  a 
man  with  all  the  comfort  that  pampered  fancy 
can  imagine,  and  still  fail  to  ensure  to  him 
a  moment's  unmitigated  joy.  You  may  toss 
him  upon  a  desert  or  transport  him  to  Siberia 
with  equal  impunity,  without  destroying  his 

337 


happy  poise  of  being,  if  he  happens  to  be  one 
of  the  fortunate  children  of  the  kingdom  of 

joy- 
Pleasure    depends    upon    material    things, 

upon  circumstances  and  events,  and  may  be 
had  in  some  measure  even  by  the  desolate,  the 
selfish,  the  evil-minded.  It  is  often  a  pallia- 
tion of  unhappiness,  often  a  distraction  of  the 
desperate,  but  it  can  never  be  a  substitute  for 
veritable  happiness  of  soul  and  essential  peace 
of  mind.  Joy  cannot  visit  the  malicious,  the 
selfish,  the  cowardly,  the  sullen,  nor  the  dis- 
pirited, though  two  mortals  talking  together 
through  the  grating  of  a  prison  door  may 
know  the  purest  happiness.  It  only  needs  that 
their  minds  and  spirits  should  be  free  and 
capable  of  being  happy  together;  then  con- 
ditions need  not  matter  too  much,  nor  count 
for  a  hopeless  weight  in  the  balance.  Being 
that  is  not  capable  of  happiness  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, cannot  be  sure  of  it  under  any 
circumstances. 

Since  earthly  joy  is  coterminous  with  life, 
33^ 


8Ciie  Bontfnfon  of  3ios 

and  life  is  in  the  moment  and  the  hour,  the 
protection  of  happiness  needs  to  be  a  daily 
consideration.  To  create  some  little  bit  of 
beauty  every  day,  even  if  it  is  no  more  than 
rearranging  the  flowers  in  a  jar  or  making  a 
habitation  more  bright  and  clean;  to  serve 
goodness  every  day  by  even  the  smallest  act 
of  courtesy  and  kindness;  and  every  day  to 
learn  some  fresh  fragment  of  pure  truth  — 
these  are  lines  of  the  necessary  procedure  for 
those  who  seek  naturalization  and  growth  in 
the  Dominion  of  Joy. 

To  enhance  the  loveliness  of  the  world  of 
form  and  colour  as  it  lies  about  us,  to  widen 
the  world  of  our  knowledge  and  gain  some 
helpfulness  of  wisdom  and  understanding, 
and  above  all  to  gladden  and  enlarge  the 
world  of  sympathy  and  love  where  tender 
hearts  have  their  tenure  and  questing  spirits 
find  their  encouragement  to  hope:  here  is  a 
threefold  hourly  task  for  the  strongest  of 
souls,  yet  not  beyond  the  compass  of  the  frail- 
est of  mortals,  and  here  is  a  magic  talisman, 

339 


with  which  the  pilgrim  artist  or  apprentice 
upon  the  highways  or  the  byways  of  perfec- 
tion need  never  go  far  astray. 

But,  O  mortal,  whenever  it  comes  to  you 
to  dwell  in  that  enchanted  country,  have  a 
care,  I  beg  of  you,  to  cherish  your  good  for- 
tune with  incorruptible  devotion.  For  if  once 
you  lose  that  mystic  franchise,  that  impalpa- 
ble prerogative  of  joy,  that  warrant  and  pre- 
scription of  glory,  you  will  not  find  it  easy  to 
be  regained.  Do  no  violence  to  your  sense  of 
beauty,  lest  you  imperil  it;  profess  no  belief 
which  you  do  not  really  hold;  cling  to  no 
creed  which  does  outrage  to  your  reason;  nor 
in  any  way  ofifend  against  sincerity,  lest  you 
imperil  it;  and  above  all  stifle  no  welling 
love  within  your  own  heart,  nor  dismay  the 
priceless  love  of  another,  lest  you  imperil  joy 
beyond  repair.  Such  misdealing  makes  wan- 
derers and  outcasts,  self-exiled  for  ever  from 
felicity,  to  range  through  a  world  to  them  for 
ever  commonized  and  degraded,  where  there 


340 


!!Ci|r  Bominfon  of  3op 

is  neither  glamour  nor  elation  nor  courage 
nor  hope. 

The  death  of  happiness  in  life  is  for  every 
personality  the  insidious  but  fatal  beginning 
of  annihilation,  the  seed  of  infection  and  de- 
cay to  which  immortality  must  succumb.  Joy 
must  be  for  ever  a  part  of  the  ideal,  of  which 
Mr.  Santayana  speaks  so  nobly,  "  He  who 
lives  in  the  ideal  and  leaves  it  expressed  in 
society,  or  in  art,  enjoys  a  double  immortality. 
The  eternal  has  absorbed  him  while  he  lived, 
and  when  he  is  dead,  his  influence  brings 
others  to  the  same  absorption,  making  them 
through  that  ideal  identity  with  the  best  in 
him,  reincarnations  and  perennial  seats  of  all 
in  him  which  he  could  rationally  hope  to  res- 
cue from  destruction."  And  it  behoves  all 
those  who  would  perpetuate  the  sacred  fire 
of  life,  to  nurture  through  all  hazards  its 
glowing  core  of  happiness. 


341 


We  have  had  The  Seekers,  The  Spenders, 
The  Spoilers,  The  Sowers,  treated  of  and  ex- 
plained in  fiction,  but  as  yet,  so  far  as  I  know, 
no  one  has  written  of  The  Growers. 

The  subject  is  a  suggestive  one.  Even  the 
title  gives  a  fillip  to  thought.  The  growers 
are  all  those  fortunate  ones  who,  whether  con- 
sciously so  or  not,  have  kept  themselves  truly 
and  persistently  in  harmony  with  great  na- 
ture. They  have  carefully  cherished  the  mys- 
terious seed  of  aspiration,  which  is  the  secret 
of  growth,  neither  allowing  it  to  atrophy  un- 
sown by  hoarding  it  away  in  the  dark  closet 
of  discouragement,  nor  impoverishing  it 
through     spendthrift     dissipation.       Normal 

342 


growers  are  not  priggish  nor  niggardly, 
neither  are  they  ignobly  wasteful  of  what  is 
more  precious  than  gold.  They  are  endowed 
with  the  instinct,  the  impulse,  the  curiosity 
which  only  constant  development  and  a  meas- 
ure of  lawful  freedom  can  satisfy,  and  which 
must  die  if  continually  thwarted  or  repressed. 
The  growers  are  all  those  natural  children 
of  the  earth,  whether  simple  or  complex,  who 
have  cultivated  the  most  fundamental  princi- 
ples of  responsible  living,  a  capacity  for  im- 
provement and  a  hunger  for  perfection.  And 
it  is  this  trait  of  rational  painstaking  that 
lends  the  most  sterling  distinction  to  person- 
ality and  differentiates  leaders  from  follow- 
ers, helpfulness  from  dependence,  and  the  in- 
dividual from  the  mass. 

For  growers  there  can  be  neither  stagna- 
tion nor  decay.  They  are  like  thrifty  trees  in 
the  forest,  deep  rooted  in  the  common  soil  of 
life  from  which  they  spring,  deriving  nour- 
ishment from  the  good  ground  of  sympathy, 
stimulation   and   refreshment   from   the   free 

343 


winds  of  aspiration,  producing  perennially 
the  flower  and  fruitage  of  gladness  and  well- 
being  proper  to  their  kind  and  enriching  the 
earth.  They  are  the  normal  ones,  at  once  the 
exemplars  of  all  that  is  best  in  their  species, 
and  the  perpetuators  of  all  that  is  most  val- 
uable. Between  the  growers  of  the  human 
and  the  forest  world,  however,  there  is  this 
distinction,  that  while  the  monarchs  of  the 
woods  grow  only  to  the  limit  of  their  prime, 
the  spiritual  and  mental  growth  of  mortals 
may  be  unarrested  throughout  a  lifetime. 
That  is  the  glory  of  our  human  heritage,  and 
the  encouragement  to  our  faith  in  our  ow^n 
venturesome  essay.  The  power  of  growth  is 
our  talisman  against  dismay,  wherewith  to 
confront  old  age  with  interest,  circumstance 
with  equanimity,  and  the  unknown  without 
fear.  And  perhaps  it  may  be  impossible  to 
bring  to  the  extreme  bound  of  our  lifetime 
any  more  warrantable  satisfaction  than  to 
have  been  a  grower  all  one's  days. 

The  growers  are  like  the  trees  in  that  they 
344 


make  use  of  such  means  as  they  have  to  fur- 
ther their  life.  A  tree  may  sprout  in  ground 
far  from  congenial  to  it,  and  among  condi- 
tions that  are  often  largely  disadvantageous. 
Still  it  neither  sulks  nor  despairs.  It  proceeds 
to  grow  with  as  much  determination  as  if  it 
were  in  the  most  favourable  environment. 
True,  its  difficult  position  or  inappropriate 
soil  may  hamper  or  mar  its  growth,  so  that  it 
will  never  reach  the  fine  perfection  which 
belongs  to  its  type,  but  it  will  grow  never- 
theless. It  does  the  best  it  can  with  its  life, 
taking  advantage  of  every  possible  opportu- 
nity, and  making  the  most  of  whatever  air  and 
light  and  soil  it  can  reach. 

Just  so  with  human  growers.  They  use 
their  wits  to  cultivate  their  aspirations  and 
powers.  They  employ  to  the  utmost  such 
powers  as  they  have,  and  fret  themselves  not 
at  all  over  faculties  or  talents  or  opportuni- 
ties that  are  not  theirs.  They  are  too  busy 
benefiting  by  what  is,  to  speculate  idly  on 
what  might  be,  or  to  repine  wastefully  for 

345 


SCJie  JWaftfnfl  of  Jlrtfiionalitff 

what  is  not.  Aspiration  is  the  seed  of  growth, 
but  it  must  be  farmed  carefully  like  any  other 
crop.  It  is  not  enough  to  have  lofty  ambi- 
tions and  ideals,  if  we  do  nothing  about  them. 
They  must  be  put  in  practice  or  they  will  not 
contribute  to  growth.  It  is  in  making  our 
ideals  actual  that  we  attain  success  in  life,  and 
experience  growth  of  personality.  Many  a 
well-endowed  mortal  has  failed  for  lack  of 
effort,  while  less  fortunate  ones  have  reached 
splendid  heights  of  achievement  and  growth 
by  dint  of  cultivating  the  modicum  of  powers 
that  belonged  to  them.  Making  use  of  the 
advantages  at  hand,  to  the  very  utmost  in 
every  moment  and  place,  is  the  secret  of  the 
seemingly  magic  process  of  success. 

Thus  the  growers  live  in  conformity  with 
the  universal  trend  of  life,  having  a  working 
faith  that  its  mighty  laws  are  friendly  and 
benign.  They  overcome  obstacles  not  by  an- 
tagonism but  by  utilization.  Having  done 
their  utmost  to  harmonize  their  living  with 
immutable  laws,  they  feel  secure  in  the  benefi- 

346 


cence  of  life,  and  have  no  fear  of  destiny. 
Here  is  ground  for  a  contentment  quite  unlike 
the  dulness  of  stagnation ;  a  basis  of  buoyant 
well-being,  and  a  perennial  interest  in  all  that 
influences  development.  Growers  can  never 
be  hesitating,  fretful,  distracted,  nor  unlovely 
for  long,  since  some  new  truth,  some  un- 
looked-for beauty,  some  fresh  spring  of  emo- 
tion, is  sure  to  touch  their  interest,  refresh 
their  sympathy,  reinspire  their  enthusiasm, 
and  requicken  their  whole  being  to  gladder 
activity  once  more.  To  their  ears  it  must  al- 
ways sound  like  sober  philosophy  to  say, 

"The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings," 

since  hardly  anything  can  exist  or  happen 
that  is  not  capable  of  being  transmuted  into 
food  for  growth  in  their  wise  conduct  of  life. 
There  are  many  different  ways  of  growth, 
spiritual,  mental,  material,  —  all  beneficent, 
all  leading  to  ultimate  perfection  when 
rightly  followed,  and  all  necessary  for  a  sym- 

347 


2rtie  iWatftinfl  of  ^tvnon^Utp 

metrical  development.  We  all  admit  that  it 
is  hardly  enough,  in  the  history  of  any  indi- 
vidual, that  there  should  be  a  progress  in  ma- 
terial affairs  alone.  One  may  steadily  im- 
prove one's  worldly  condition  through  life, 
and  remain  personally  but  little  bettered  at 
the  close.  The  advancement  in  circumstances 
must  be  accompanied,  pace  for  pace,  by  an 
advance  in  intelligence  and  feeling.  Every 
day  ''  to  earn  a  little  and  to  spend  a  little  less," 
as  Stevenson  says,  is  good,  proverbial  philos- 
ophy, and  if  it  be  parallelled  in  matters  of  the 
mind  and  heart,  becomes  an  invaluable  word 
of  wisdom.  To  grow  a  little  more  reasonable 
and  a  little  more  kindly  day  by  day  is  an  es- 
sential part  of  the  truest  prosperity. 

The  material  value  of  this  salutary  thrift 
goes  without  saying,  and  one  need  only  recall 
the  riches  of  character  in  one's  most  stimula- 
ting friends,  to  be  convinced  of  its  equal  de- 
sirability in  the  less  tangible  realm  of  per- 
sonal culture  and  influence. 

To  our  complex  human  nature  symmetrical 
348 


growth  seems  the  fittest  ideal,  —  a  balanced 
development  that  prevents  the  limitations  of 
distortion  and  the  friction  of  discord,  and  se- 
cures the  freedom  of  poise.  The  lack  of  an 
ideal  of  symmetrical  culture  is  to  blame  for 
such  imperfect  maturity  as  we  find  for  exam- 
ple in  persons  who  exhibit  an  overinsistent 
instinct  for  self-preservation,  protecting  and 
furthering  their  own  animal  indulgence,  re- 
gardless of  cost  to  others;  in  those  who  are 
so  greedy  of  mind  that  they  neglect  the  care 
of  practical  things;  and  in  those  again  who 
are  overdeveloped  emotionally  through  un- 
controlled avidity  of  sentiment  and  feeling. 

The  best  growers  are  those  rare  and  fortu- 
nate mortals  who  have  divined  the  incom- 
parable value  of  a  symmetrical  culture,  and 
take  constant  care  to  utilize  the  avenues  of 
growth  in  each  of  these  three  directions  with 
equal  solicitude.  They  know,  or  at  least  they 
instinctively  feel,  that  any  stultification  in  the 
development  of  one  part  of  that  composite 
miracle  called  personality  means  an  inevita- 

349 


JTJje  JHafefng  of  ^ttnonnlits 

ble  injury  to  the  other  two,  and  that  none  must 
be  preferred  or  forced  singly  at  the  cost  of  the 
others,  but  that  they  can  only  be  brought 
nearer  to  the  measure  of  perfection  by  being 
helped  and  freed  and  cultivated  harmoni- 
ously.   This  is  the  law  of  perfect  growth. 

Growers  are  the  only  people  for  whom  we 
need  feel  no  anxiety.  If  they  are  our  friends, 
no  matter  for  how  long  they  may  drop  out 
of  sight,  it  is  certain  that  at  our  next  meeting 
we  shall  not  find  them  deteriorated  nor 
worsted  by  life,  w^hatever  adversities  or  sor- 
rows they  may  have  had  to  face.  For  all  for- 
tune, both  ill  and  good,  is  converted  into 
means  of  growth  by  some  secret  chemistry  of 
the  soul,  known  (if  not  actually  understood) 
by  all  personalities  that  are  intelligently  alive. 
However  often  they  may  change  their  address 
or  their  philosophy,  they  can  never  be  worse 
off.  They  move  their  belongings  from  place 
to  place,  only  to  better  their  estate;  they  trans- 
fer their  convictions  and  enthusiasms  "  from 


350 


©tie  eftotoerfii 

creed  to  larger  creed  "  only  to  widen  their 
outlook  and  refresh  their  faith. 

Again,  growers  are  the  only  people  who 
need  never  be  afraid,  —  neither  of  misfor- 
tune, sorrow,  defeat,  unkindness,  nor  the 
shadow  of  death;  for  deterioration  is  the  only 
veritable  evil  that  can  befall  a  personality. 
There  is  neither  injury  nor  fault  that  cannot 
be  outgrown.  But  when  we  cease  to  grow, 
it  is  a  calamity  indeed,  and  just  cause  for  hu- 
man dread.  Fear  and  despair  and  anger  and 
ignorance  and  worry  and  meanness  are  fatal, 
because  they  arrest  growth,  arrest  spiritual 
and  mental  activity,  even  arrest  digestion,  and 
so  are  inimical  to  life  and  happiness.  Any 
one  of  them  may  be  truly  called  a  partial 
death,  since  it  causes  a  dissolution  of  some 
glad  and  natural  emotion,  beclouding  the 
mind  and  involving  the  vital  processes  in 
temporary  disaster.  When  the  mind  is  un- 
hinged by  terror,  or  the  heart  is  frozen  by 
grief,  the  body  can  neither  eat  nor  sleep,  and 


351 


our  whole  being  is  torn  from  its  proper  en- 
vironment of  rational  and  kindly  sensibility, 
beginning  at  once  to  wither  and  die  like  a 
wounded  sapling  or  a  broken  flower. 

And  who  so  well  as  the  growers  can  afford 
to  drift?  They  need  have  no  fear  of  being 
carried  out  of  their  course,  for  they  are  in  the 
main  current  of  life,  and  not  in  an  eddy  or  by- 
water.  Whither  the  mighty  river  of  existence 
may  be  carrying  them,  perhaps  they  never 
inquire.  They  only  know  that  they  are  being 
borne  onward  by  its  titanic  sweep,  in  some 
glad,  free,  lawful  way  that  makes  for  ever- 
widening  horizons  of  happiness. 


352 


an 


®Iir-;ffa0]^toneir  ^^untt 


The  modest  and  most  essential  virtues  of 
the  soul  are  like  those  old-fashioned  flowers 
we  used  to  love  in  dim  half-forgotten  sum- 
mers of  the  past.  They  sweeten  the  character 
that  fosters  them,  and  under  the  magic  process 
of  life  yield  extracts  more  potent  than  the 
subtlest  perfumes. 

Can  there  be  any  one  who  does  not  remem- 
ber the  pitchers  and  bowls  full  of  pansies  and 
stocks  and  mignonette,  of  roses  and  poppies 
and  nasturtiums,  of  heliotrope  and  sweet  peas 
and  lilies-of-thc-valley,  in  odorous  darkened 
rooms  of  some  old  country  house  far  away 

353 


from  the  noise  of  town,  among  the  elms  and 
the  hay-fields  and  the  silver  rivers. 

In  early  morning  the  windows,  which  had 
stood  open  all  night  to  blessed  cool  of  trees 
and  stars  and  shrubbery  and  drenching  dew, 
would  be  closed  by  some  gentle  hand,  and  the 
green  shutters  drawn  against  the  mounting 
glare  of  day,  to  retain  in  hall  and  parlour  and 
dining-room  something  of  the  peace  and  re- 
freshment of  the  hours  of  sleep,  —  in  the 
lovely  twilight  of  these  most  human  sanctu- 
aries,—  while  the  blazing  midday  of  North- 
ern summer  bathed  all  the  garden  world  in 
pure  unmitigated  golden  heat.  The  only 
sound  to  break  that  almost  solemn  quiet  was 
the  chatter  of  purple  martins  in  their  dimin- 
utive houses  above  the  lawn,  or  the  sharp  thin 
note  of  the  yellow  warbler,  as  hot  and  intense 
as  the  breath  of  noon  itself,  or  perhaps  the 
sudden  dry  clacking  of  a  locust  driving  his 
fairy  mowing  machine  under  the  spacious 
blue. 

Indoors,  in  that  grateful  stillness,  beads  of 
354 


icy  water  gathered  on  the  brown  stone  jug  on 
the  sideboard,  and  the  scent  and  colour  of 
homelike  companionable  blossoms  filled  the 
dwelling  with  friendliness  and  charm.  They 
were  so  still,  so  delicate,  so  fresh,  so  vivid, 
so  eloquent  of  loving  and  sedulous  care!  As 
their  fragrance  gave  a  last  touch  of  grace  to 
the  gleaming  mahogany  and  silver  of  those 
hushed  colonial  rooms,  the  remembrance  of 
them  must  perpetually  haunt  the  chambers 
of  the  mind. 

Of  all  the  personal  qualities  which  fragrant 
virtues  go  to  distil,  the  most  complex,  while 
seemingly  the  simplest  and  surely  the  most 
irresistible,  is  the  old-fashioned  essence  we 
call  loveliness. 

This  fine  quality,  so  easy  to  recognize  yet 
so  difficult  to  define,  does  not  at  once  betray 
to  the  casual  sense  its  component  principles, 
and  we  are  at  a  loss  to  realize  exactly  whereof 
it  is  made.  Only  after  living  and  learning 
does  the  realization  come  to  us  that  loveliness 
is  distilled  from  a  blending  of  kindliness,  sin- 

355 


SCfie  ittaftfnfl  of  J^etsonalits 

cerity,  and  comeliness,  —  or  as  a  poet  might 
say,  from  the  lilac  of  love,  the  iris  of  truth, 
and  the  carnation  of  beauty. 

The  lilac  may  well  stand  for  the  emblem 
of  kindliness.  It  comes  so  inspiringly  with 
the  opening  of  the  year,  when  all  the  forces 
of  the  ground  are  awakening  from  their  cold 
lethargy,  and  the  beneficent  earth  is  renewing 
her  elemental  life.  In  that  time  of  universal 
joyance  and  exuberant  hope,  the  lilac  puts 
forth  her  generous  beauty  to  the  world,  ma- 
king a  paradise  of  many  a  dooryard  in  the 
spring.  In  our  Northern  spring-time  many 
loved  flowers  come  early  to  the  woods  and 
garden  beds,  proclaiming  with  their  bright- 
ness that  the  season  of  birds  and  leaves  is  here 
once  more;  and  yet  for  all  the  encouragement 
of  these  welcome  vanguards,  there  remains  a 
chill  in  the  air,  a  reluctance  in  the  earth,  a 
flinching  in  our  skins,  and  a  hesitation  in  our 
hearts.  But  when  the  blessed  lilac  blooms 
under  the  window,  we  are  assured  that  the 
joy  of  summer  is  really  at  our  doors,  windows 

356 


are  thrown  open,  and  a  warm  gladness  takes 
possession  of  indoors  and  out.  The  lilac,  like 
all  true  kindliness,  is  so  abundant  yet  so  unos- 
tentatious, so  sweet  yet  so  subtle,  so  common 
yet  so  fine,  so  exquisite  and  so  hardy!  It 
grows  without  coddling  in  the  humblest  spot, 
lavishing  all  its  wonderful  delicacies  of  scent 
and  colour,  all  its  rich  luxuriance  of  foliage, 
to  glorify  the  poorest  environment;  and  yet 
quite  as  becomingly  will  it  deck  the  costliest 
table  or  the  prettiest  head  with  a  touch  of 
something  untellably  rare  and  precious.  The 
children  may  gather  it  in  armfuls  without 
stint,  while  the  wisest  can  never  outlive  the 
gladdening  magic  of  its  kindly  charm. 

To  the  artist,  the  lover  of  orderly  revela- 
tions of  truth  in  shapes  of  beauty,  the  iris  has 
always  been  dear  for  its  stately  blending  of 
symmetry  and  grace.  It  lends  itself  more 
serviceably  than  any  other  flower  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  decoration  and  design.  Its  tripli- 
cate petals,  symbolic  of  the  threefold  nature 
of  all  perfection  and  the  regularity  of  law 

357 


2rtje  i^alKing  of  ^tvuonmtsi 

which  must  underlie  all  freedom,  have  been 
reproduced  in  myriad  modifications  through 
many  centuries  of  art.  As  the  trefoil,  it  has 
served  to  symbolize  the  trinitarian  faith  in 
countless  reproductions  of  ecclesiastical  ar- 
chitecture and  ornament.  As  the  fleur-de-lis, 
it  is  invested  with  memorable  associations  of 
historic  glory.  Through  immemorial  leg- 
endry  its  triune  flower  appears  as  the  mys- 
tical symbol  of  sex,  full  of  occult  significance 
and  implications  of  joyous  life.  As  the  com- 
mon blue  flag,  it  decorates  our  wilding  mead- 
ows with  a  shred  of  heavenly  azure  cast  down 
upon  the  young  and  springing  world  of  green, 
beguiling  imagination  on  many  a  summer 
morning  with  a  strange  spell,  —  as  of  a  supra- 
mundane  loveliness,  —  which  always  attaches 
to  blue  flowers.  It  is  the  joy  of  the  designer, 
giving  itself  so  pleasingly  to  interpretation 
of  his  fertile  fancy,  and  adding  its  eloquent 
symbolism  to  myriad  devices  in  wood,  in 
leather,  in  pigments,  in  precious  metals  and 
plastic  clay.    Like  a  good  model,  it  is  not  only 

358 


an  mXf^ffuu'^ionttf  lEnntntt 

a  convenience,  but  an  incitement  and  an  aid 
to  invention,  adaptable  yet  original  and  sug- 
gestive, definite  and  calculable  yet  full  of 
flowing  grace.  There  must  be  in  all  triune 
forms,  whether  in  nature  or  in  art,  a  profound 
and  subtle  satisfaction  to  the  mind,  since  no 
other  form  —  neither  duplicate,  fivefold,  nor 
multifold  —  so  suggests  the  triplicate  sym- 
metrical structure  of  all  supreme  beauty. 
The  pure  colour  and  delicate  fragrance  of 
the  iris,  with  its  simple  yet  luxuriant  sym- 
metry, conspire  to  make  it  a  fitting  symbol  of 
sincerity  and  truth. 

To  distinguish  between  the  comely  and  the 
beautiful  requires  some  nicety  in  the  usage  of 
words,  though  any  of  us  will  feel  sure  of 
knowing  the  difference,  so  long  as  we  are  not 
asked  for  definitions.  And  while  we  readily 
accede  the  supremacy  to  beauty,  it  is  still  true 
that  a  comeliness  that  is  sincere  and  kind  may 
transcend  many  unsound  beauties.  Comeli- 
ness, to  be  exact,  differs  from  beauty  and 
grace,  combining  something  of  each  of  those 

359 


attributes,  and  adding  and  emphasizing  cer- 
tain distinctions  and  qualifications  of  its  own, 
—  serviceability,  fitness,  becomingness,  fresh- 
ness, and  above  all  a  scrupulous  wholesome- 
ness  and  freedom  from  taint. 

As  a  type  of  pure  comeliness,  w^hat  flower 
surpasses  the  carnation?  To  the  rose  no  doubt 
must  be  accorded  her  unquestioned  preemi- 
nence of  beauty.  Her  name  has  been  imme- 
morially  a  synonym  for  all  that  is  most  desira- 
ble and  ravishing  to  human  sense.  She  is  the 
undisputed  empress  of  the  flowery  world, 
magnificent  and  unrivalled.  But  next  to  her 
consider  the  carnation's  claim  to  popular  sov- 
ereignty. Consider  their  masses  of  opulent 
bloom,  their  long  delicate  bluish  leaves  and 
stems,  their  stimulating  cleanly  perfume,  their 
variegated  colour  as  they  nod  in  homely  clus- 
ters in  their  well  tilled  beds,  or  sway  with 
cheery  sufficiency  from  the  simplest  vase,  and 
declare  whether  any  of  their  sisters  are  more 
comely  than  they,  or  can  better  satisfy  that 
craving  for  sensuous  refreshment  which  the 

360 


loveliness  of  flowers  has  helped  to  engender 
in  us,  and  must  for  ever  help  to  slake. 

Loveliness  is  not  perfection.  It  requires 
only  human  possibilities,  —  kindliness  of 
heart,  frankness  of  disposition,  fitness  of  per- 
son. It  is  warm,  impulsive,  quite  fallible, 
often  sad,  but  never  unkind.  It  does  not  even 
affect  omniscience,  content  if  it  can  but  secure 
an  acceptable  sincerity  and  fair  dealing  in 
the  conduct  of  life.  It  does  not  pine  for  flaw- 
lessness,  if  it  can  but  have  faithfulness,  pains- 
taking, good  cheer,  and  growth  toward  a 
noble  dream. 

As  old-fashioned  flowers  are  simpler  and 
commoner  than  many  overfostered  favourites 
of  the  hour,  and  yet  never  lose  their  perennial 
essence  of  loveliness,  but  rather  become  en- 
riched and  endeared  as  associations  and  mem- 
ories gather  about  them,  so  these  old-fashioned 
qualities  of  kindliness,  sincerity,  and  comeli- 
ness, which  go  to  make  up  personal  loveliness, 
are  not  really  superseded  by  any  amount  of 
"  temperament,"  "  esprit,"  "  style,"  or  what- 

361 


ever  characteristic  may  be  in  current  vogue 
in  the  jargon  of  the  hour.  The  quality  of  be- 
ing "  chic,"  for  instance,  does  not  include  all 
that  comeliness  implies;  a  friend  may  be 
'' sympatico  "  (that  admirable  and  delightful 
trait!)  and  yet  not  have  all  the  tonic  charm 
comprehended  in  kindliness;  and  no  charac- 
teristic of  the  mind  can  ever  take  the  place  of 
human  sincerity.  The  newer  modes,  whether 
in  flowers  or  graces,  cannot  supplant  the  old 
essentials.  Fashions  change,  but  the  things 
that  fashion  life  are  unchanging. 

One  is  often  surprised  at  finding  beauty 
where  there  is  neither  soul  nor  intelligence 
at  all  commensurate  with  the  physical  seem- 
ing, and  in  such  instances  one  instinctively 
hesitates  to  use  the  adjective  "  lovely,"  as  sy- 
nonymous with  "  beautiful."  For  loveliness, 
as  we  habitually  think  of  it,  contains  other 
attributes  besides  physical  ones,  being  made 
up  of  a  modicum  of  beauty,  actuated  by  a 
generous  heart  and  inspired  by  an  incorrupt- 


362 


an  ®lJr=:iFafiiJ|fonelr  lEnnmtt 

ible  loyalty.  This  subtle  composite  charm 
does  not  necessarily  affect  us  in  the  same  way 
that  surpassing  beauty  does,  suddenly  over- 
coming us  by  its  sheer  supremacy  and  often 
leaving  our  riper  judgment  bewildered  and 
void.  Loveliness  pleases  and  satisfies  without 
reservation  or  reaction.  While  it  is  within 
the  power  of  beauty  to  astonish  the  senses, 
only  loveliness  can  delight  the  soul  and  con- 
tent the  mind  as  well  as  charm  the  eye. 

To  the  lover  of  beauty  in  old  days  Aphro- 
dite was  immortal  and  divine,  and  remnants 
of  her  liberal  cult  may  still  lurk  in  our  pagan 
blood,  haunting  the  imagination  at  times  with 
an  alluring  spell.  The  immemorial  rites  of 
that  worship  are  not  to  be  revived.  Our  skep- 
tic days  call  for  a  more  rational  religion. 
Meanwhile  we  credulous  and  practical  mod- 
erns, still  not  altogether  unmindful  of  endur- 
ing loveliness,  might  recall  the  three  immor- 
tal Graces,  offer  them  sane  devotion  under 
their   names   of    Comeliness,    Sincerity,    and 


363 


Kindliness,  and  enroll  ourselves  in  the  order 
of  the  carnation,  the  cult  of  the  iris,  the  fel- 
lowship of  the  lilac. 

What  mainly  distinguishes  these  essential 
ingredients  of  loveliness  is  that  they  are  all 
attainable  practical  virtues,  rather  than  ab- 
stractions, —  human  rather  than  divine  attri- 
butes. Kindliness  is  practical  love,  sincerity 
and  comeliness  are  the  every-day  forms  of  the 
truth  and  beauty  which  we  think  of  as  eternal. 
And  loveliness  itself  is  a  most  human  essence, 
rather  than  an  angelic  one.  We  endow  celes- 
tial beings  in  fancy  with  shining,  preeminent, 
and  supreme  perfections,  but  reserve  the  liv- 
able properties  of  this-world  loveliness  for 
the  children  of  mortals. 

Gentle,  warm  and  generous  natures  lay  a 
sorcery  upon  us  with  a  look  or  a  tone,  or  trans- 
port us  by  a  hand-touch  beyond  the  confines 
of  sorrow  and  dismay,  while  far  more  per- 
fectly beautiful  but  less  loving  and  under- 
standing beings  leave  us  indifferent  and  un- 
moved.   Time  as  it  passes  betrays  the  loveless 

3^4 


spirit  and  the  unlighted  mind  by  unmistak- 
able signs;  the  eyes  grow  hard,  the  mouth 
unsmiling  or  mean,  the  brow  sullen  or  super- 
cilious, and  the  general  mien  becomes  furtive, 
dejected,  or  querulous.  But  the  kindly  spirits 
who  put  love  and  care  into  the  daily  practice 
of  life,  increase  in  loveliness  as  the  years  go 
by,  and  age  only  lends  them  a  more  indubita- 
ble and  magic  comeliness.  Their  beauty  is 
not  the  mere  insensate  mask  of  appearance, 
whose  flawless  hues  must  pale,  its  texture 
change,  its  lines  droop,  beginning  to  wilt  even 
in  the  moment  of  maturity,  like  a  soulless 
flower;  it  is  the  subtle  and  registering  simu- 
lacrum of  the  ever-growing  intelligence  and 
spirit,  whose  loving  thoughts  and  feelings  it 
reveals  from  moment  to  moment  in  valuable 
and  memorable  expressions  of  loveliness. 
The  plainest  features  grow  more  comely  with 
years,  through  habits  of  loveliness,  —  by  be- 
ing made  continually  the  instruments  of  sin- 
cere and  kindly  lives. 

Of  all  the  qualities  that  can  enlist  our  en- 
365 


thusiasm  for  a  personality,  sincerity  is  surely 
the  noblest  and  most  rare.  It  is  only  through 
sincerity  that  mortals  can  attain  anything  like 
a  permanent  tenure  of  happiness,  and  come 
to  breathe  that  paradisal  air  in  which  fearless 
intelligences  dwell.  Sincerity  is  to  conduct 
what  truth  is  to  science,  what  unselfishness  is 
to  religion,  what  devotion  is  to  art,  the  core 
upon  whose  soundness  all  other  worth  de- 
pends. As  a  single  error  may  invalidate  a 
whole  fabric  of  reasoning,  so  a  drop  of  insin- 
cerity may  vitiate  all  the  effect  of  an  attract- 
ive character,  nullifying  beauty,  weakening 
love,  and  involving  the  personality  and  all  its 
relationships  in  disaster.  It  is  sincerity  that 
supplies  the  preservative  ingredient  in  love- 
liness, that  keeps  it  stable  and  sweet  under  all 
conditions  and  for  any  length  of  time,  keeping 
its  goodness  from  the  insidious  inroads  of  sad- 
ness, and  its  beauty  from  the  deterioration  of 
futility  and  disappointment. 

That  comeliness  should  be  so  potent  a  part 
of  loveliness  is  natural  enough,  since  it  is  the 

366 


ain  ®lir=iFafi5i|fone5  Essence 

senses  after  all  that  supply  the  nourishment 
of  our  dreams  and  suggest  the  trend  of  our 
ideals.  It  is  useless  to  delude  ourselves  with 
the  belief  that  the  spiritual  life  needs  nothing 
more  than  virtue  for  its  sustenance,  and  may 
be  lived  in  a  state  of  fatuous  beatitude  quite 
removed  from  actualities.  Such  a  dreary  and 
fantastic  conception  of  existence  could  only 
have  been  devised  by  the  dark  rabid  theology 
of  the  middle  ages,  that  midnight  of  man's 
reason.  Strange  as  it  seems,  there  are  still 
here  and  there  fanatical  minds  which  can  de- 
cry the  excellence  of  beauty,  keeping  alive  the 
mistaken  old  cant  which  declares  it  to  be  an 
evil  and  a  snare.  This  is  no  more  than  an 
ascetic  and  fanatical  pose,  without  any  real 
ground  of  conviction;  for  we  must  all  enjoy 
the  aesthetic  stimulus  of  beauty  and  feel  the 
religion  of  its  innocent  good,  unless  we  are 
perverted  or  mad. 

But  the  instinct  of  humanity  is  never  to  be 
defrauded  for  long.  The  sternest  Puritan 
must  have  felt  in  his  heart  that  his  hatred  of 

367 


2rj|e  JHamufi  of  ^ttnonnUts 

beauty  was  traitorous  to  honest  goodness  and 
at  enmity  with  benign  truth.  Is  not  the  deep 
unhappiness  in  the  lives  of  bigots  a  proof  of 
the  unnatural  and  monstrous  falseness  of  their 
doctrines?  We  need  to  be  constantly  trained 
and  exhorted  to  an  honest  and  generous  mo- 
rality, but  comeliness  is  an  unquestionable 
good  which  we  must  instinctively  approve 
and  admire.  No  healthy  intelligence  can  be- 
lieve that  disregard  of  physical  welfare  can 
be  other  than  injurious  and  crippling  to  men- 
tal and  spiritual  growth.  Our  intuitive  ad- 
miration of  the  beautiful  is  too  deep  and  pri- 
mordial to  be  other  than  wholesome  and  legit- 
imate, and  productive  of  salutary  results. 
And  we  must  make  ourselves  happy  by  free- 
ing our  minds  from  the  unfortunate  notion 
that  somehow  personality  is  to  be  miracu- 
lously endowed  with  angelic  perfections, 
through  vigorously  neglecting  to  cultivate  the 
perfections  that  are  possible  to  it  here  and 
now,  —  by  getting  rid  of  the  delusion  that 
our  instincts  are  evil  and  our  senses  corrupt, 

368 


and  that  the  aspirations  and  purposes  of  the 
soul  and  mind  can  be  best  served  by  meagre, 
inadequate  bodies. 

The  practical  cultivation  of  gladdening 
and  helpful  loveliness  needs  no  extraordinary 
wealth,  no  exceptional  opportunities,  no  fa- 
voured habitat  or  environment,  no  peculiar 
advantage  of  air  or  season.  In  any  garden 
of  the  spirit  its  growth  may  spring  and  flour- 
ish with  modest  rapture  and  invincible  pow- 
ers. Comeliness  glorifies  a  cotton  gown  as 
enchantingly  as  it  does  a  Paris  ^'  creation." 
One  may  wear  clothes  worth  a  ransom,  and 
still  be  unlovely,  even  uncomely,  —  dowdy, 
mean,  undesirable,  and  ashamed.  It  costs 
very  little  money  but  considerable  nicety  to 
be  comely,  —  to  be  clean,  cared  for,  and  in 
keeping  with  just  requirement.  To  be  sin- 
cere and  kindly  is  equally  inexpensive  mone- 
tarily, and  more  costly  in  unselfish  effort  and 
wisdom,  yet  not  unattainable  for  the  least  of 
us  even  in  a  confusing  and  distracting  world. 

And  always  before  us  within  constant  touch 
369 


8Ct)^  IWafein©  of  ^tv^onulxts 

of  enjoyment  is  that  enheartening  and  suffi- 
cient reward  for  all  efforts  in  self-culture,  — 
a  sense  of  our  own  small  share  of  unequivocal 
though  unobtrusive  success  and  contentment; 
always  about  us,  the  loveliness  of  life,  its 
blossoms  flowering  in  choicest  and  humblest 
places,  fragrant  and  perfect,  and  distilling  for 
our  rapture  the  potent  essence  whose  perva- 
sive magic  makes  Eden  everywhere. 


370 


©enius  anir  tiie  Artist 


No  more  misleading  definition  was  ever 
formulated  than  the  familiar  one  which  de- 
clares genius  to  be  an  infinite  capacity  for 
taking  pains.  That  is  the  one  thing  that  ge- 
nius is  not.  A  capacity  for  taking  pains  may 
be  a  characteristic  of  every  conscientious 
worker,  but  is  in  no  way  an  essential  distinct- 
ive trait  of  genius. 

The  very  essence  of  genius  is  its  spontaneity, 
its  inspiration,  its  power  of  instant  and  inex- 
plicable coordination  and  achievement.  Its 
processes  are  incomprehensible  even  to  itself. 
It  cannot  take  pains,  for  it  is  an  immediate 
force  like  gravity,  and  works  without  effort 
or  consciousness  of  exertion.     It  is  indeed  an 

371 


infinite  capacity,  but  it  can  only  have  been 
confused  with  patient  painstaking  because  in 
the  eternal  course  of  creation  infinite  patience 
and  infinite  desire  must  be  supposed  to  be 
parts  of  infinite  wisdom.  Among  men  genius 
is  more  often  spasmodic,  uncertain,  fluctua- 
ting as  the  tide  and  erratic  as  the  wind,  sus- 
ceptible to  stimulus  and  amenable  to  sugges- 
tion and  education,  but  intolerant  of  routine, 
impatient  of  restraint,  and  accommodating  it- 
self with  difficulty  to  the  stereotyped  require- 
ments of  conventional  toil  in  a  workaday 
world. 

The  woes  of  genius  are  proverbial.  And 
the  many  annoyances,  misfortunes,  and  dis- 
tresses which  usually  beset  its  most  marked 
possessors  are  charged  unreasoningly  to  the 
inherent  character  of  genius  itself.  But  this 
is  surely  an  error.  It  is  not  the  unfortunate 
man's  genius  that  involves  him  in  unhappi- 
ness,  but  his  lack  of  a  rationally  ordered  and 
well  balancing  education  adapted  to  his  ex- 
ceptional needs.     Far  from  being  the  cause 

372 


<!!;niiiif$  attn  tf^t  Artist 

of  his  undoing,  his  genius  is  often  the  only 
source  of  satisfaction  and  happiness  he  has; 
and  its  exercise  and  influence  afford  him  the 
only  refuge  possible  to  his  otherwise  chaotic 
and  ill-regulated  life. 

The  dictates  of  genius  are  never  unsound. 
Its  tremendous  urge  is  a  veritable  breath  of 
the  life-spirit,  infinitely  wise,  benign,  and 
powerful,  making  only  for  good,  for  beauty, 
for  enlightenment  in  the  life  of  the  individual 
and  in  the  life  of  the  race.  It  can  only  seem 
chaotic  or  malign  when  perverted  by  faulty 
art,  when  thwarted  in  exercising  itself,  when 
stultified  and  harried  by  unfortunate  environ- 
ment or  inharmonious  training.  Genius  often 
seems  mad  only  because  its  possessor  is  inade- 
quately educated  for  handling  his  treasure,  in- 
capable of  arranging  any  modus  vivendi  be- 
tween himself  and  the  world.  Small  wonder 
that  the  bungler  of  such  a  blessing  should  be 
distracted  and  distraught  by  such  failure. 

The  precious  gift  of  genius  is  not  so  infre- 
quent as  is  said.    Not  all  genius  is  in  the  realm 

373 


of  fine  art  or  in  public  or  famous  or  conspic- 
uous activities.  It  may  show  itself  in  the  sim- 
plest service  of  humanity,  and  all  genius  is 
richly  valuable  and  exquisitely  pleasing.  The 
genius  of  motherliness,  that  soothes  and  sus- 
tains the  whole  weary  world!  The  genius  of 
merrymaking  that  suns  out  the  dark  places 
whenever  it  comes  near!  The  genius  of  un- 
selfishness that  gilds  the  dullest  efifort!  The 
genius  of  making  happiness  out  of  the  unlike- 
liest  odds  and  ends  saved  from  the  wreckage 
of  our  disappointments!  The  genius  of  inge- 
nuity, —  how  well  balanced  it  must  be,  how 
modestly  it  works  its  miracles!  The  many- 
sided  genius  of  home-making  and  child-rear- 
ing! The  sturdy  genius  of  dependability! 
Unacclaimed,  unappreciated,  unappraised, 
but  never  wholly  unrequited,  these  bits  of 
life-spirit  work  against  unreasoning  obstruc- 
tion and  confusion  to  save  the  world!  Who 
has  not  some  genius,  and  what  might  it  not 
grow  to,  if  it  were  happily  educated!     How 


374 


better  can  one  serve  the  world  than  through 
the  happy  bent  of  one's  genius? 

Genius  is  the  spontaneous  coordination,  of 
inspiration,  aspiration,  and  execution,  and  re- 
quires for  its  perfect  development  the  finest,  tX 
most  harmonious  culture  of  the  spirit,  the  in- 
telligence, and  the  senses.  Why  not,  there- 
fore, so  educate  every  one  in  the  art  of  living . 
as  to  establish  avenues  through  which  genius 
could  free  itself  and  develop  to  the  incalcu- 
lable good  of  the  world?  Genius  must  be 
educated  and  supplied  with  adequate  comple- 
mentary capacities  in  order  that  it  may  be 
saved  from  torture  and  frustration;  and  the 
artist,  that  is  to  say,  every  one  of  us,  should 
be  so  educated  that  genius  may  emerge  and 
find  an  unobstructed  vent  for  its  purpose  and 
dream. 

THE   END. 


^ 


375 


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